The Broken Throne
by Isabelle Sumner
Summary: The waves splash against the ship—the massive structure rocking on the water as it glides forward on the Mediterranean Sea. He stares off at the horizon, watching a fiery orb climb the sky; a new dawn is coming. Edward Cullen sets out, determined—he will find his kidnapped fiancée and rescue her while facing his own past. (AU no vampirism. Edward X Bella. Trilogy Part 2)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This is the **second** part of a trilogy. If you have not read the first part, please go back and read "Secrets of the Court". I have two versions of this fic. The first version was posted before this twilight version (as I have also explained in Secrets of the Court). I did not wish to remove the first version since some people were reading it so I kept it, for them. I try to be as historically accurate as possible, so if you see any faults, please PM me. Since the country of Angloa is a made up country with its own history and culture, it may differ from other European countries at the time. Rated M to be safe, some mature themes.

I would also like to point out that Reading author's notes can be important at times. I know people tend to skip them at times. But I want to be clear to some anonymous reviewers out there: I have stated _again and again_ that "Secrets of the Court" was only the first fic in a series. If you do not read the information that is so clearly given to you, I cannot be held responsible for your disappointment. I always appreciate constructive criticism, but not blatant bashing.

Lastly, for those new here, English is not my first language. I still learn as I write, so if you find any grammatical faults, please make them known to me, I would really appreciate it.

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 **THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 1_

 _September 5th, 1453_

The sun shone brightly in the late summer sky, its rays penetrating through the thick and leafy forest roof of Raven's Grove. There was a pleasant stillness in the desolate forest. Animals grazing kept alert for any possible intruders.

Suddenly, a rabbit perked its long ears at the whoosh of an arrow gliding through the trunks. The steel tip embedded itself a few centimeters next to the animal. The creature did not have to think twice as it ran for its life through the foliage, moss, and bushes of the forest floor. It gained speed as yet another arrow whooshed past it; closer this time.

The vibrations of hooves awakened more creatures in the woods as two riders rushed to catch the animal. One rider strung his last arrow, letting go of his reins mid-canter. His seating was secure as he held onto the eager stallion with strong thighs. He took a deep breath, the keen eyes looking at the back of the rabbit as he aimed the weapon. The arrow released with his breath, sliding forward in an elegant arch as it caught its prey. The rabbit was dead as soon as the metal head had burrowed into its skin and flesh, tearing through its innards.

The horses took both riders to the dead animal. One man got down and put it in a bag, proud of his achievement.

"Did you see that shot, Magnus?" he exclaimed, gleefully pointing at the bow he held in his hand.

The other man—much younger—scoffed but could not help a grin spread on his lips as he saw the proud look in his older brother's eyes.

"What I saw, Philip, was you recklessly letting go of your horse to catch a mere rabbit," he teased. The dark eyes gleamed mischievously as he watched his brother sigh at him while he got back on the horse.

"Cocky now, are we? I guess you will continue giving me snarky comments until I take down a deer as well today?" Philip defended as he mounted. His green orbs could not uphold his serious countenance as he arrogantly raised an eyebrow, something that had turned into a trademark gesture for the king.

"A deer or a hog, at least," Magnus continued. "But I fear your dumb horse has scared them all away with his insistent neighing."

As if on key, the black stallion stretched his neck and let out a roaring neigh, pleased when his master patted his side. Philip's eyes wandered from the horse to Magnus for a few moments before he let out a burst of roaring laughter. The midnight black locks fell into his eyes and gave him a roguish air.

"I think Hannibal disagrees with being called dumb, Magnus," he chuckled while urging the stallion forward.

They continued their quipping as they searched the forest for more animals. Somewhere in the distance, hounds had been released to help the other noblemen in the area locate prey as well. But they never made any effort to shoot the larger animals they found. Instead, they would send a servant to inform the king so he would be the one to take the animal down. But no matter how many servants they sent, Philip never came. He preferred finding and killing his own prey.

As the day progressed and the gentle winds stirred the forest roof more, the woodland creatures picked up the scent of the humans who had invaded the green woods. After having taken down a pheasant, Philip decided that it was enough for one day. The young monarch longed to return to Adelton Hall.

They exited the thick foliage of the forest with the train of noblemen, hounds, and servants that had accompanied the two royals. All the way to the gleaming white castle raised high on its cliff, Philip and Magnus kept talking and joking with each other.

Philip Fell looked at Adelton Hall and took in its beauty. The fairy tale castle was outlined against the Durun Mountains where in a few months snow would paint the tops. Green forests surrounded it except for the front where an emerald green meadow with soft grass and white flowers rolled; with one narrow road that led to the town of Hayes. The yellow and orange rays of the now setting sun bathed the castle in their colors, making it take on a golden sheen.

"I can never get over how beautiful it is here," Magnus breathed as he took in the surreal landscape.

Philip looked at the scene in front of him. This was a wonderful world to live in. Angloa was a free country, she was blossoming like a flower in May. Slowly but surely she grew to be her own, to distance herself from once being a colony of the English.

"This place is like nothing I've ever known before. The mountains, the forest, the hills—everything has a power over me that I cannot explain. Whenever I am here I feel at peace," he said as he turned to his brother, at least fifteen years his junior. Philip had, with carefully worded words, explained just what Magnus felt.

"To think you were crowned King four years ago, my brother. Time passes quickly when in such a place."

"Time passes quickly when one is happy," Philip mused. His lips parted a sliver, his face contorted into a mischievous look that soon dominated his handsome features. Philip stared at the castle in the distance. A dangerous gleam shone in his eye as he turned to his brother.

"I will race you to the gatehouse!" Philip yelled, not giving Magnus time to react as he spurred Hannibal into a wild gallop. Magnus was soon behind, yelling curse words at his brother as the other laughed loudly.

 _February 23rd, 1520_

The foul stench of fish and waste would not go away as her tired body laid sprawled on the messy bed. Isabella found that she had no energy to move away from it. The dirty sheets surrounded her like a suffocating blanket and she stared emptily at the dark interior wall of the ship.

Her head was dull by now. She had spent too much time crying, and she found that the tears had dried up. She only found a wrecking emptiness inside her as the waves of the Mediterranean rocked the galleon like a mother would rock the cradle of her child.

Braun locked her door these days. He had assured her several times that no harm would come to her as he had rushed her and his men to the docks. But Isabella had never believed him, especially not when she had watched him shoot Mrs. Rochester. She had tried in vain to take the men down as they set to rape the younger maids in their townhouse. When she closed her eyes, she could hear their raw cries claw the walls of her mind as several of Braun's men took turns with the maids.

Isabella had not believed Braun's reassuring words as they bribed the merchant to take them to Cadiz. The merchant had sealed his own doom when Braun's men took over the ship, killing most onboard. However, the more seasoned sailors were allowed to join the ranks of the disgraced duke.

Isabella had finally damned him when one of his men found her the first night, hidden in the small chamber provided for her.

Braun had gotten to her in time before any real damage could be done. Even so, she really wondered if the blackguard had not damaged her, just a little. Yet another piece of her wounded soul seemed to fall away; fading away in the darkness of her being.

The man was killed, of course. But what he had done to her could never be changed. Braun had even professed his deepest apologies, but they mattered not to her. He had put a lock on her door and promised such a thing would never happen again.

The first hours after having been touched by that disgusting man Isabella had cried, horrified at what had been done to her body. She could feel the filthy hands running over her, tearing the gown and pinning her down on the floor. She could feel the splinters of the floor ride into her back as he mounted her, fumbling with his dirty hoses. It hurt. Not just in her body, but in her soul as rough hands forced her limbs still.

Isabella had cried harder after, feeling dirty, soiled and broken. He had never managed to rape her, but he had been close enough for it to feel real.

She had never known much about making love, only that it was a necessary process to conceive children. But now that she saw a glimpse of what it might entail, she abhorred it.

After a few days of constant crying, she found herself to be exhausted. There were no more tears; only that emptiness within her. She still wore the torn dress and her back was still scraped and ridden with thick and painful splinters.

That was how Braun had found her. She cared little for modesty as he walked in, not even bothering to cover up her bare legs or naked back as he closed the door behind him. Braun could not ignore the twinge of guilt that ran through his mind at the sight of her. It was first when he neared her bed that she made any movement to get away from him.

Isabella's wide eyes looked at him. Pain and despair filled them, but the frown and hatred soon outwon her fear. Braun put up his hands as a gesture of well-meaning.

"I will not touch you, nor will I hurt you. I swear it on my life," he said as truthfully as he could. It caused Isabella to sneer. She pushed the dirty locks away from her face.

"Your words mean little to me," she growled, her voice still shaking. She ignored the pain in her back. The splinters were causing some slight inflammation and Braun eyed them with concern. "As does your word of honor. I would never trust a traitor," she laced every word with venom, biting back the pain coursing through her back. Braun disregarded her words and caught a view of her inflamed back.

"At least let me have someone tend to your wounds before they get worse," he said as he saw that she was in visible pain.

But she turned from him.

"Like you had that man of yours "tend" to me a few days back?" Isabella tried to ignore the memory of him and looked away, hoping Braun couldn't see her moment of weakness. He said nothing. He did see the incident as unfortunate and a small twinge of guilt washed over him a second time. But he, a duke, would not go so low as to actually apologize to her.

"I will send someone over, whether you like it or not," Braun said haughtily, trying to gain dominance over the conversation again.

He turned to walk out of the room, not keen on being in her presence for too long. Braun knew he had made a rash decision in taking Isabella Swan with him like that. He had been infuriated at the moment, only wanting to hurt Edward Cullen. But now he saw that it had been a foolish mistake, something someone like Alistair would do.

"Edward will find me." The words stung him more than they should have. Braun was surprised by the fire they held. He had always seen Isabella as a frail little thing, but now he grew unnerved by the raging fire shooting out of her brown eyes.

"I hope he slaughters all of you when he comes." She ignored the hypocrisy in her words. To think that only a week earlier she had stopped her fiancé from killing Alistair and now Isabella wished for nothing more than to see blood spilled. She ignored the violence that stirred within her.

Braun could not hide the smirk as he turned to face her. He had to bend down as the door-opening was so low.

"Cullen is dead, I killed him myself," he said. Braun could not help himself as satisfaction embedded itself deep within his being.

Silence followed those words.

He could not read her face, her expression froze before it turned cold. Isabella felt her mouth dry up at Braun's words.

"That is not possible," she whispered in disbelief. Yet a small part of her questioned herself. "If you killed him it means you managed to overthrow the king…" she trailed off. "You wouldn't be running from Angloa." She tried to find logic in such a situation, never willing to accept Edward's death.

"He sent for Carlisle Chaeld to come with an army to the gates of Wessport. I had to flee, but I managed to slice him open before I did so," Braun lied. She could not find words as the hope of being saved slowly vanished within her.

"I do not know if you ever got to see his face but if you didn't, be glad for it. It was indeed a mess under that mask of his. I understand why he wore it now," Braun continued, the coldness in his voice sent shivers through Isabella as she came to terms with her new reality.

 _February 22nd – Málaga_

The morning sprung alive in the Spanish port as many ships from all over Europe arrived at the harbor. Although it was February, the sky was clear, the temperature pleasant yet chilly, and the sun warm. Its rays stretched far and wide, heating the bustling streets by the docks.

As they sailed in on the merchant ship, Carlisle and Jacob watched in awe when the Alcázaba came in sight. The palatial fortification appeared so foreign and exotic to them. It stood on a hill, in the center of the city, overlooking the harbor—visible from the port itself. Trees surrounded the grand Moorish building, and it stood out like a rare jewel amongst the other buildings in the city.

Here seagulls cried out as they searched for fish that had been thrown out of the stalls. They would occasionally dive to steal some smaller fish when the vendors weren't looking.

The merchant ship docked and both Carlisle and Jacob could not help but stare in awe at the unfamiliar sights and smells. Here trading ships unloaded their cargo to be sold to the highest bidder. Herbs, spices, metals, precious gems, fabrics, hides, and so on were packaged, inspected, and placed on carts.

They went down to their quarters where they'd spent the last week as the ship had taken them from Wessport to the Iberian Peninsula. Carlisle knocked softly on the door while Jacob waited outside.

"Come in," a weak voice said. Carlisle opened the door, closing it behind him as he walked into the modest space.

On a small bed, Edward Cullen rested in a thin, white shirt and dark trousers, sweating profusely through his clothes. Even though the Mediterranean temperature was much milder than the cold, unfeeling winds of a snow-ridden Angloa, the air still held a chill to it.

"We have arrived," Carlisle said as he went to sit beside the bed.

Edward turned to face him. The whites of his eyes had a red tinge to them. The black mask did not show how the rest of his face looked, but Carlisle could see—from the little skin showing around his eyes and mouth—that he was pale. His lips held a purple tone and he was clammy. Edward's breath was shallower than he would have liked.

"Good," was all the masked man could utter with difficulty. He had not even strength to lift his head from the pillow to stare out the small glass window that offered a view of the Spanish port. Carlisle stared at him for a while, his lips in a thin line.

"How is the wound?" he asked, pointing at Edward's shoulder. It was bandaged tightly. However, even though Braun's knife had been thin and small, it had left a deep wound. Since Edward had rushed away with his friends after the battle at the palace—never bothering to properly care for the wound—it had become infected during the journey. The second night it had started to look red and irritated. Despite him trying to keep it clean, the tainted air on the ship did little to help. The third day it became inflamed, swelling up, turning into a painful obstacle for Edward. He couldn't move his arm on the fourth day and on the sixth, puss started seeping from it. Jacob and Carlisle grew worried. If it was left untreated, the infection would surely claim their friend.

"It's fine," Edward lied, his usually strong and masculine voice now a mere whisper. He made no effort to confirm his words. His left hand still lay unmoving by his side and the fever had not gone down.

"It is not fine, Edward," Carlisle said as he voiced his concern. His baritone voice turned grave when he saw the man suffer. "As soon as we dock we must get you to a physician, they will—"

"We have no time, Carlisle. Just buy some herbs in one of the merchant's stalls and I will apply it myself," Edward argued. But he had scarcely any strength to go against Carlisle. The other could not stand seeing his friend in such a wretched state.

"I will do no such thing. I will take you to someone myself if I have to," he continued. He would not lose Edward in some foreign town, not now.

"I do not trust the physicians here," Edward argued. "And we must take the next ship to Rome, lest we lose track of Isabella and Braun!" he exclaimed. In a delirious state, Edward moved his arm a mere centimeter. A heartbreaking cry of pain escaped him as the wound was moved as well; the puss leaking through the bandage. Carlisle remained silent at the evident discomfort of the other. He simply sent his friend a glance saying "I told you so".

"We will help you off the boat and find a place where you can rest. You cannot go after Isabella like this. We need you to have all your strength and wits about you if we are going to outsmart Braun," Carlisle's baritone voice spoke. He never received an answer. Edward's eyes flashed with contained anger, but he had no strength to argue.

It was soon that the ramps to the ship were laid so the people onboard could descend. Jacob and Carlisle supported Edward. They placed a long cape around him with a deep hood to shield his mask and integrity, to deter curious onlookers.

When the three had descended, they stood in the middle of the harbor, the men, and women bustling around them as they took care of their affairs. Neither Carlisle nor Jacob spoke any Spanish. They had also never been outside of Angloa and found themselves completely lost in the foreign city.

"Perhaps we should try to find an inn?" asked Jacob as they looked around like lost puppies.

"I do not see an inn here," Carlisle said as he supported most of Edward's weight. He nearly crumbled under the size of the wounded man that leaned against him. Edward was barely lucid.

"We'll ask around." Jacob tried to remain positive, but the situation felt direr by the minute.

"Ask for a _posada_ or a _taberna_ ," came a whisper from under the hood. Their concealed friend bit pack the fatigue and pain, fighting through the dizziness that followed.

Jacob built up the courage and went asking around. He did, of course, not understand the answers he was given. But after a lot of patience and hand gestures the three of them wandered toward the center of the city until they found their destination.

The posada was situated on a busy and narrow street with whitewashed houses. Inside, people sat eating food and drinking the local wine while they spoke in loud voices. Jacob and Carlisle kept widening their eyes at every turn, amazed by every new thing they saw. The innkeeper met them and started speaking Spanish at an alarming speed that sent their minds spinning. All words were completely intangible as he kept sounding them out. He was shorter than them with black curly hair—not bothering to shave the small beard that was growing on his wide face. The nose was prominent—a Roman aquiline nose. It was proud, passionate and arrogant; like both men perceived the Spaniards to be.

Edward managed to say some words in Spanish and the innkeeper quickly showed them to a room with two beds and a thin mattress on the hay-covered floor. He required immediate pay and kept glancing at the hooded man as he was lowered down on the bed, resting his heavy head against the pillows. When the innkeeper had left, Jacob and Carlisle looked just as lost as they had before.

"What now?" whispered Jacob to Carlisle, sure that the older friend would have a grasp of the situation.

They stared around the dark room. The wooden beams in the roof were old and the oak was dark. One corner held a small chair and table with a metal bowl. Outside they heard the busy pedestrians going about their business. Edward's chest moved with effort as his breaths became all the more shallow.

"We have to find someone who can help him," Jacob insisted. Carlisle agreed with a silent nod. But which physician could help with such a wound? Not even a king's doctor would be able to do much. Carlisle knew well that those dedicated to healing often did more damage than good.

"There is a family here that I knew long ago," Edward's faint voice spoke after a moment's silence. The sudden sound broke through the stillness in the chamber. Both men lent him their ears as he caught their attention.

"You lived here?" Carlisle asked in disbelief.

Edward ignored him and continued. "The father had some experience in medicine. I trust him."

"Where?"

"On the outskirts of the city," he trailed off. The large form gulped for air under the cape and hood, his head and arm thumping in the same rhythm. The sweat had soaked through his whole shirt and standing close they could feel the heat radiate from him. Carlisle and Jacob exchanged worried glances. There was no doubt that the small move from the ship to the inn had endangered his situation. If he did not get help before the day was over, they were worried they'd have to search for churchyard instead of a physician.

"I will go. You keep an eye on him," Carlisle said as he patted Jacob on the shoulder. The younger man removed the cape and placed it on a shivering Edward.

Carlisle went to the door and glanced back. The directions he had gotten were little to go on as Edward had lost lucidity once more. He would have to try as hard as he could, though.

Carlisle started searching for the road that led to the outskirts of the city—to the old quarters. It took him a while and a lot of patience. He received quite a lot of strange looks as he tried his best to ask for directions. Hand gestures got him around good enough. He even said some words in his very limited Latin—the Spaniards seemed to understand him well enough most times.

The blond Angloan arrived at a section of the city where fewer people frequented. The air was different as well, more loaded than before. The space between the houses stood narrower, to keep the rays of the sun away during summer, no doubt. As he wandered the streets, he asked people if any of them knew Edward Cullen. After what seemed like hours, Carlisle was giving up hope.

He found a small fountain in a little plaza where he sat down. Somewhere a church bell rang, and the town seemed to have settled down as the afternoon progressed. He guessed it was time for supper.

Carlisle placed his head in his hands, staring in defeat at the cobblestones. How could they go after Isabella when Edward lay like an invalid on his deathbed? He feared the worst then. Carlisle started playing the worst possible scenarios in his head. He had always known himself to be pessimistic and now was no different.

While his occupied mind wandered, a boy came running after a kitten that tried to escape him. The boy couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen and he was as thin as a twig. His skin was a shade darker compared to other Spaniards that Carlisle had seen around town. It had a faint olive tone to it. The black tresses were a mess and his eyes widened as he saw the strange blond man stare back at him by the fountain. Carlisle thought he had nothing to lose and tried to ask the boy.

At first, the youngling kept away as he thought Carlisle to be very strange. He had seen few foreigners in his life and, so, having someone so close was unnerving for the young Spaniard. Carlisle started losing patience with the whole mission. The sun was already lowering on the sky, the once blue heavens now took an orange tone as the yellow orb started disappearing—taking its warmth with it.

But when he mentioned Edward's name, the boy suddenly lit up with recognition—he knew Edward Cullen. Carlisle could not explain more for he did not speak the language. But the young boy took his hand and guided him through the labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways until they stopped in front of a door. As he let himself be guided by the foreign boy, the young man's heart sped up with anticipation, perhaps this was it.

The houses of this street had a faded white tinge to the walls, the red brick that lay underneath had started showing through at some parts. The door was a horseshoe arch and made up of different colored bricks of a very faded red and beige. The material was of delicate cedar, once probably strong and proud, now as faded as the rest of the doors in that particular part of town. He could see some window higher up in the structure with intricate details carved into the stone. The patterns that made up the window were destroyed in some parts. Yet, he saw a lantern hanging by it, lit now that the sun was descending.

The boy knocked hard on the wood and waited patiently. A small section of the door opened, a woman peeked through—a red veil covering her face, only allowing a view of dark enigmatic eyes. The boy said something and mentioned Edward's name. The woman looked from the boy to Carlisle and he saw a delicate black eyebrow raise on her tan forehead. But she let him in, ushering him inside quickly and looking about the street, making sure no one had seen them.

Carlisle walked into what he could only describe as the most ornate and exquisite courtyard he had ever seen. Whoever had lived in this house had once been rich and perhaps even an important person in society. But, as history would have it, the riches of the house and courtyard had faded, merely a whisper of what they used to be.

In the middle of the rectangular courtyard, there was a rectangular reflecting pool. On the bottom of the pool, tiles and mosaic in intricate mathematical patterns could be seen through the clear water. Opposite them was a gallery organized by poly-lobed arches—something Carlisle had never seen before. The symmetric arches had carvings in the light stone as well. He could see faded paint line the lower part of the columns, extending to the pillars that supported them. Beyond the gallery, he saw a stairway of stone leading to the second level. By the stairway, a horseshoe arched doorway opened up to another room bathed in light. There was much greenery in the courtyard. Blooming flowers lined the columns and the pool even though they were at the end of February. The walls parallel to the pool held windows, and he saw some curious faces look through them and hastily retreat when he met the gazes.

The woman stared long at him. Now—in the light of the evening sun—Carlisle could see the uncovered face of the cautious woman. She wore a dress in muted blues and reds, hugging her midsection and covering her arms and shoulders. A thin veil with fine embroidery was draped across her hair. The woman wore the graying hair away from her defined face. She looked Carlisle up and down, frowning at his presence but tolerating it, nonetheless. Her severe voice spoke to the boy in a language that did not sound at all like Spanish. Her words were enough to send him away. She motioned for Carlisle to follow her as she led him to the door at the end of the courtyard.

The room was high in roof; the interior sported the same style as the courtyard. Reds, yellows, blues, and copper were incorporated into the rich design. A low table sat in the middle and soft cushions in red with detailed silk embroidery had to be the seating, was all that Carlisle could think. He was sat down on one of them, surprised at the commodity they offered. He could sense the faint perfume of spices and oranges waft through the house. In one corner of the room, stood a lonely orange tree in a big ceramic pot. The branches held small green fruits that would eventually mature into big, juicy oranges.

Suddenly, he heard steps and the woman reappeared from the courtyard, followed by another woman. She wore similar clothes but was much younger. Carlisle was completely taken by her beauty. Her dark hair peeked through the veil in soft curls—glossy and healthy. She had the same light olive tone to her slightly tan skin. It looked soft and inviting to the now self-conscious man. Her eyes were what really intrigued him though. They were like nothing he had ever seen. She never dropped eye contact as she sat down opposite him on a cushion by the table. He stared into the dark depths. At first, he thought they were as black as the older woman's eyes. But, in the light of the many oil lamps that hung from the ceiling—suspended by thin chains—he saw a hint of green in them. Even from a distance, he could smell her sweet scent; spices, orange blossoms and something else he could not quite place. The woman frowned when it was clear that Carlisle was staring at the younger woman—who could not have been over twenty.

"We bid you welcome to our house, sir." Her voice sounded more mature than she looked. Her accent was soft and welcoming, flowing like a sweet tune from her plump lips.

"You speak English?" was all Carlisle could say after a pregnant pause. The question made her raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Of course," she answered matter-of-factly as if it had been evident. She took the initiative when Carlisle made no effort to continue the conversation. He was still a stranger to the two women in front of him—forgetting why he had come.

"I am Zoráida, this is my mother, Hala. The young boy you met was my brother, Ashiq," she drawled in her accent. Carlisle had never before heard of such names. Even though he was familiar with Spain and the Spaniards, he never knew of them having such names. But slowly the wheels in his mind started turning. They were north of the city, still close to the center but it was clear that the Spaniards did not frequent this area. The people in front of him were not Christians he realized then—or they were newly converted. It should have been evident from the start, but Carlisle had been too preoccupied with admiring the surroundings to ever take note.

"Well met, Miss Zoráida, Mrs. Hala," Carlisle said awkwardly as he nodded to both women. Hala continued to frown at him.

"My brother said you were speaking of Edward," she said, pronouncing Edward's name with a Spanish accent.

"I am. He is here, in Malaga," Carlisle explained, getting straight to business. Zoráida's eyes lit up at the mention of Edward's presence.

"Oh, then he must come for it has been very long since we last saw him," she said, smiling for the first time. Carlisle's heart jumped a beat at her smile as it lit up her whole face. It did not seem as strict as it had before. It became softer, more feminine.

"That is why I am here. Edward is wounded and he sent me here because he believes you can offer him medical care," he continued. The truth was that Carlisle had no idea how any of these women would be able to help Edward. But then again, it was his masked friend who had been in Spain before; who knew of the country and its ways. So, Carlisle didn't question it and trusted Edward instead.

Zoráida's smile faded as a painful memory seemed to surface. Hala noticed how her daughter seemed subdued by what Carlisle had said. She asked her what they were talking about. When Zoráida explained, Hala seemed to recall the same painful memory.

"Edward must have been speaking of my father, for he was indeed a great healer," Zoráida began. "But he cannot help him now." Her words were stiff and short as if she did not wish to recall her father.

"Why not?" Carlisle asked urgently. "Edward has an infected wound on his shoulder that needs acute care now or he will not last the night, I am sure of it."

The young woman's enigmatic eyes stared right into Carlisle's clear ones, cutting into his very soul. It was almost as if she held a spell over him.

"My father is dead," she said finally, the tension rising with each ticking second. With those words, the hope of helping Edward seemed less and less likely. She noticed how the foreigner in front of her despaired at such news. "But worry not, I learned much from my father before he passed. I will come with you and help Edward."

"You?" He could not help himself as the words escaped his mouth. Even though Hala did not speak English, she understood what he meant from the tone in his voice. Zoráida eyed him defiantly. The dark greens in her endless eyes seemed to gleam dangerously as she stuck her chin out, challenging him to question her again.

"You will show me to Edward," she said. The young beauty exchanged some brief words with her mother who clearly seemed opposed to the ordeal. But Zoráida ignored her.

"Very well," Carlisle agreed. He hoped the girl knew what she was doing. He had never heard of women being physicians before. A small part of him wondered if Zoráida might use more than herbs and ointments to heal. The prejudice of a woman healer being tied to witchcraft briefly touched his mind. But Edward had little time and Carlisle had nowhere else to turn.

The women guided him out to the courtyard again. He watched as it was bathed in the dying rays of the sun. It transformed the space. The pool reflected the orange heavens just like the walls with strange inscriptions running along their edges.

Hala grimaced at Carlisle the whole time he stood contemplating the alien courtyard. He had never seen such exquisite and symmetrical architecture before. Even though faded—having drifted back with the sands of history—it could not compare to Carlisle with what he had seen in Angloa. Perhaps it was the style of the architecture, its novelty, that inspired him so.

"My brother, Ashiq, will accompany us," she said, sneaking up behind him. The sudden nearness of the young woman made Carlisle jump slightly. He had not noticed her as she neared him. The boy stood waiting by the cedar door, a serious look was plastered over his face. Zoráida carried a small green sack that rested diagonally across her concealed frame.

"Fair enough," Carlisle agreed. It would be safer to have the boy walk the girl home after she was done with Edward.

Zoráida said her goodbyes to her mother and soon they were off to the inn. The siblings remained silent the whole way there. They would occasionally pass people coming back from the fields or the harbor as the day came to an end. Both the girl and boy would cast their gazes to the ground, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. They had stepped out of their protected home and walked into another world. Although the boy could have passed for just any other boy on the street, Zoráida drew in more attention to her deep eyes, slightly darker skin and style of clothing.

They arrived at the inn while the first darkness of the night wrapped tightly over Málaga. Torches had been lit on the streets and she spoke to him in a hushed voice to sneak her and her brother in via the back.

He looked around for a back door in the dark, feeling nervous as he feared being discovered at any time. For some reason, he felt like he was sneaking in a lover into his home while avoiding his parents. Carlisle snickered at himself. He was a grown man, such things should not bother him.

He finally found a clear way to get into the inn. The inside was lively as more and more people streamed in to get some wine or beer after a hard day's work. The innkeeper was too busy serving them to notice as the trio came in through the back way and quietly walked up the stairs. Carlisle blocked the view of the siblings if anyone happened to look up at the stairs at that moment.

Jacob was pacing back and forth in the small space as he kept sending worried glances Edward's way. The fever had kept going up since Carlisle had left and there were moments when his breath would stop briefly until it returned uneven and shallow.

A soft knock sounded on the door; someone checked to see if it was unlocked. Jacob pushed his ear against it and was thankful when he heard Carlisle on the other side. He unlocked the heavy door and three people rushed in.

Jacob's eyes grew into saucers at the sight of Zoráida and Ashiq. He sent Carlisle a questioning glance, an eyebrow rising high on his forehead. But he never questioned the peculiar siblings directly.

The young girl's eyes searched the poorly lit room until she found Edward's large form sprawled on the bed, sleeping. She cast away the shawl and rushed to his side, kneeling by his left shoulder and taking his gloved hand carefully in hers. A pained expression lit in her face as she saw the state he was in.

"Edward?" she called with a soft voice, another hand sneaked up to his face and caressed it carefully. Edward stirred at the touch and opened his eyes. It took him a while to gain lucidity. A face he could not place hovered above him, outlined by the dim light in the crowded room.

"Zoráida…" he trailed off, the voice merely an echo of what it used to be. He smiled as he recognized her. His right hand came to take her own, and he squeezed it gently. It was clear to Carlisle and Jacob that the two had known each other for a long while.

"I see you haven't changed," she said as she scolded him, her eyes gliding over his weary form. It coaxed a laugh from the man that he immediately regretted as it caused severe pain in his shoulder.

"Your English has gotten better," he murmured after he recovered. She began digging in the green sack, letting go of his hands.

"I had a good teacher," Zoráida said as she kept digging. She placed several clean bandages and various packets of herbs, bottles of foreign liquids, and metal instruments on the nightstand next to him. The young woman took some small scissors and cut open the soaked white shirt to better access the wound.

"Where is Musa? Where is your father?" he asked as he looked around the room, not finding who he sought. A shadow stretched over Zoráida's face as she gently plied the bandage away from the wound, grimacing at the puss seeping out. Jacob and Carlisle sat down by the other bed in the room, silently watching them in the dim light. Ashiq looked away at the mention of his father's name.

"He died," she said, her full lips pressing together. Zoráida cleaned the wound, trying to keep herself occupied. The news sent Edward's mind spinning.

"How could that be? What happened when Sofia and I left?" he asked, raising his head as the urgency in his voice grew. He was too weak, and it plopped right back down. He clenched his right fist as she touched the wound. Zoráida never answered his question. Instead, she motioned for Carlisle and Jacob to come to their side.

"Hold him down." Zoráida placed them each on one side of the masked man. Carlisle put a hand against Edward's right shoulder and arm while Jacob stood by Edward's left side, holding him down by his left arm and chest—mindful of never touching the open cut.

"I want you to bite down on this, lest you injure yourself more," Zoráida said as she gave him a small piece of wood to bite down on. Edward did as she bade, knowing very well what followed. Zoráida needed to clean the cut as she had seen her father do so many times before; by pouring alcohol over it. He knew the pain would be unbearable due to the severe infection, and he only hoped it would be over quickly. She sent him an apologetic look as she uncorked the flask with the clear liquid.

"Make sure he doesn't move, or it will aggravate the wound," Zoráida instructed, receiving stiff nods from both men as they looked down at their friend. Even in such a state, Edward kept a stoic air of indifference, trying not to be bothered by such a situation. Zoráida let the alcohol flow freely. Time moved slower as the liquid escaped the bottle, gracefully making its way to the irritated shoulder. When the first drop made contact with the infected skin, Edward felt as if his flesh was burning off. Against his will, he tensed while the alcohol bore deep into the wound, cleaning and cleansing his shoulder. Jacob and Carlisle had to put all their weight on the limbs. Even though he was weak, Edward put up quite the resistance. He bit down as hard as he could on the wood, trying to fight the pain. But the more she poured into the wound, the more he lost grip over himself.

When she had finished cleaning the wound—removing the puss with a clean cloth soaked in more alcohol—she proceeded to place herbs that would lessen the infection. She could not yet sew it shut. They would have to wait until the next day and see how it healed. She bandaged it in white linen strips washed in vinegar. Now they had to wait. Edward let out a weak breath as the worst part was over. She removed the piece of wood.

"Drink this," Zoráida said as she uncorked another flask with a dark amber liquid in it. He grimaced at it, for he had tasted the very same medicine years earlier from Musa; Zoráida's father. He knew how vile it tasted. "Edward, you will drink it or I will force you to drink it," she ordered angrily as she recognized the look in his eyes. Jacob and Carlisle had to hold in some chuckles despite themselves. She looked like a mother scolding her child. He opened the mouth and closed his eyes, grimacing through the mask as the medicine slid down his throat.

"Will he be alright?" asked Jacob after she went to sit next to the bed. Even though the wound still stung, Edward could feel the invasive herbs taking effect. He still had a fever, but he knew the medicine would take care of it.

"We will have to wait until the morning. If the infection goes down, I will sew the wound shut," Zoráida explained. "After that, it is up to Edward." She glanced over, giving him a knowing glance.

"How did Musa pass away?" came the question again. It took them all off guard as they had expected the masked man to have slumbered into a deep sleep. Instead, he looked at them with his deep green eyes, catching the sorrowful countenance of Zoráida. She sighed and turned to face him. Ashiq looked down the window, observing the lively street outside of the inn. He listened to the brawls and tune of a spontaneous guitar as laughter escaped the confinements of the _sala_ where the customers drank and ate away. The merriment did not seem to fit the gloomy air that now expanded throughout their little room.

"The Inquisition took him," Zoráida said silently after a while.

"They took Hakim too," Ashiq added silently in Spanish by the window—his English only limited to some simple form of understanding.

Edward grew cold at those words. Both Musa, father of Zoráida, and Hakim, her older brother, had been good friends when he had lived briefly in southern Spain for some years. Sofia and he had even lived with the family for a few weeks upon their arrival in Malaga.

"But you converted, nothing to me indicated that you would have—"

"It doesn't matter if we did or not, to the inquisition we were still _mudéjares_ ; still moors. We never baptized either. We represent the past and they will use any excuse to cast us all out. It doesn't matter if we convert, they only call us _moriscos_ then. We will never be one of them, even if our family has lived on these lands for centuries," Zoráida said heatedly.

"What are mudéjares and moriscos?" asked Jacob, voicing the curiosity that Carlisle felt as well.

All they received was a harsh glance from both Edward and Zoráida, indicating that it was a story for another time. Zoráida looked back at Edward, taking one gloved hand in hers, squeezing it gently. Despite their situation, she was glad to see him again.

"You will have to rest in this bed for at least a few days more and then rest your left shoulder and arm for another few weeks. When you start using it again, you must be wary. The wound was deep and if you put too much weight on it, it could easily reopen and get infected again," she explained.

"Tomorrow you will sew it shut and then we take the next ship to Rome," Edward said, determined to not waste any more time than necessary.

Zoráida frowned at his words while she packed away her equipment.

"Why do you wish to sail for Rome?" Edward's lips turned into a thin line, not too keen on answering her.

"His fiancée has been kidnapped and we have set out to rescue her," Jacob explained, oblivious to the rising tension in the room.

"Fiancée, eh?" Zoráida mumbled. There was a moment of uncertainty—of how she would react. Alas, soon a sad smile touched her lips, her eyes locking with his. "If you manage to save her, I wish to meet her. It would be interesting to see the woman who managed to ensnare the heart of Edward Cullen."

* * *

 **UPDATE (09-01-2019): I have made a playlist of the music that inspired me while writing this fic. Feel free to listen to it as well!** **I cannot link it here so you will find it on my profile!**

 **UPDATE 2 (25-04-2019): I have started correcting some of the grammar and punctuation in this story. If you find any grammatical faults. Please send me a PM, I always appreciate it! :)**

 **A/N: I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. Some quick notes. Most of southern Spain was under Moorish rule for several hundred years. It played a great part in forming the Spain that we know today.**

 **Mudéjares = a Muslim during the Christian reconquest of the Iberian Peninsula.**

 **Moriscos = a moor in Spain converting to Christianity.**

 ***The last Moorish kingdom in Spain (they were also known as** _ **taifas**_ **after the Caliphate of Cordoba fell at the beginning of the 11** **th** **century) was Granada and it feel to the Spanish Reconquista in 1492.**


	2. Chapter 2

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 2_

 _November 21st, 1454_

The cold, relentless days grew shorter as autumn left the island, leaving the way for the snow and ice. Cadherra saw winter nearing as the mountaintops had already turned white some weeks ago. The nobles and royals kept inside Adelton Hall as the fires in the grand chimneys were lit. Lavish parties were held by the monarch and his doting wife. It was a way to keep the aristocrats occupied during the dark nights-when stepping foot outside the castle was not an option.

But, what the king enjoyed the most, was spending quality time with his family.

His quick steps brought him from the throne room to his chambers, eager to see his spouse and child after a long and tedious day. The assemblies always drained him of energy, for his advisers never seemed to agree on anything.

When the monarch arrived at his quarters, he was caught by surprise as a small boy jumped right into an embrace.

"Father!" the youngling said, the little time they had been separated had been too much for the boy who admired his father so. Philip let out a small chuckle and looked to the corner of the vast chamber where the queen, his wife, sat reading by candlelight.

"Were you bored without me, Edmund?" he asked.

"Mother does not wish to play. She only reads," the young prince said, wrinkling his nose. His auburn hair tousled and fell into wide blue eyes. Marianne looked up from her book and smiled mischievously. Her dark blonde tresses fell in small waves around her face—the silky curls long and luscious. She looked lovingly at the scene of her son and husband playing.

Marianne Urdun was the daughter of Duke Jeremiah Urdun, lord of the north. Their marriage had been a political one at first where Philip—then the prince—had sought to ask for her hand to stabilize the power in the country.

Marianne put aside her book and went to her husband, letting him embrace her and plant a kiss on her front. Outside the frosted window, bathed in the silver beams of the moon, big snowflakes floated down to cover the meadow below the castle. The lights from Hayes were obscured as the snowfall grew thicker—the winter winds gently coaxing the flakes to dance in the silence of the night.

She whisked something hidden from her wide sleeve, giving it to him as a sly smile spread across her fair features. It was a sketch, a small portrait that had been framed in light cedar wood and outlined in gold leaf. The sketch was formidable and the very likeness of Philip. Even though he had had many portraits made of him as he took the crown, they all showed the king, not the man. But this portrait was humane, showing another side to the king, more toned down, more caring and patient. Truth shone in his eyes; truth, and understanding.

"You have seen 39 winters, my love. I cannot give you much for I know you care little for gold or riches, so I give you this," Marianne said as she pushed the small portrait into his hands.

"A gift?" Philip asked, bewildered. He stared at the face on the parchment as if he were staring into a mirror. Edmund reached for the sketch, for the eager child wanted to see as well.

"Remember our trip last summer to the Italian peninsula? I had that young painter you liked so much draw a sketch of you," she smiled, pleased that her husband liked her present.

"Bellini," he remembered. Philip looked at it again and his cold body turned warm at the memory of their early summer spent on the coast of the peninsula. It had been a brief visit to get away from their secluded island. He had gone through Rome and, later, up north. Marianne had come with him. Magnus had stayed in Angloa, taking care of matters of the court while Philip took a break from being king. He was allowed some weeks of freedom and peace that court could not offer him.

He gently pried away the picture from his son as Marianne went to pick up the young boy. "I shall always treasure it." Philip put it with care on the table next to their wide bed. "As I treasure and love you both," he said huskily, going in for a loving kiss.

 _March 16_ _th_ _, 1459—Wessport_

"You have to keep him steady, Edmund!" came the powerful voice of the monarch as he watched his son on the horse. The young prince let out a heartwarming laugh as the beige stallion took an eager jump forward, happy to be running on the meadow.

Philip, Magnus, Marianne, and some courtiers attended their first picnic of the year. The snows had melted a week ago and the last few days had been uncommonly warm. Some flowers had already sprouted, not that usual for that time of year. Philip had decided that it was time to get out of the constricting castle walls. He took one look around him and felt his heart swell at the warming sight of his family.

The king sighed at his luck. Nothing could compare to what he felt when he saw the joy spread on his wife's face as she conversed with one of her ladies-in-waiting. Nor would he change anything for the laughter his son emitted as he sat astride the cheerful stallion. The eager horse carried him in circles around the meadow below the castle. A pageboy ran at his side, keeping a steady hand on the animal so that it would not run away with the prince.

Philip's and Magnus' gazes crossed for a brief moment where both saw in their eyes the unexplainable love and joy they held for that moment. Magnus had married only a few weeks earlier, to a modest beauty from a northern region named Rebecca Trienne. She was already with child. When Philip saw his brother, his heart swelled. He felt pride then as well.

But it seemed a balance needed to be kept in that joyful splendor that was his life. Where Philip found happiness, worry and trouble soon followed. The early spring day turned darker as a new presence made itself known to him.

"Your Majesty," came the harsh and slow voice from his left. Philip turned around to see one of his advisors, someone he did not care much for. Lord Adam Flannigan had been sitting on his father's council and he was a powerful man best not trifled with.

"What is it, Adam," the king muttered. He did not hide the despise he held for the lord. He had presented trouble ever since Philip's father's reign. The old lord was vicious and selfish at his best. He rarely took action unless it would benefit him. Philip was grateful that the old man had no children—no pesky heirs that would keep their father's bothersome presence in Philip's life.

"I hear you have yet to give an answer considering our proposal on moving court," Flannigan said haughtily.

"I am yet to decide, my lord." Philip turned around. "But I can promise you that it will not be New London." There was almost a hint of malice lacing the monarch's voice. Lord Flannigan was from New London—where he held powerful connections. Philip had no wish to move court where he would give the old lord a more powerful playing-ground. Adam seemed irritated by the answer, but whatever other emotions had surfaced he kept in check. His hazel eyes squinted as he continued speaking.

"You should at least bring it up today during the council meeting. We all know Cadherra is not a suitable place to hold court," he said, almost daringly.

"My father seemed to think so. Are you saying my father—the late king—was wrong?" Philip asked, enjoying the flustered look growing on the old man's face as he questioned him.

"Of course not, Your Majesty, I deeply respected your father—may his soul rest in peace. But when his life started reaching its end, even _he_ realized that he could have moved court to a more strategic place," Adam said.

Philip frowned, his relaxing morning had been ruined then, for thoughts of the court and his kingdom corrupted his mind. All he wanted was some time with his family.

"I will consider it during this meeting. But nothing is definite yet," Philip said and thus concluded their conversation. Adam understood the cue and swiftly moved away.

* * *

 _February 24_ _th_ _, 1520 – Málaga_

He was awoken by the light tapping of a windowpane. The curtains were drawn back as the fresh morning air seeped into the room. Edward opened his eyes and was met by a blue sky, not a cloud in sight.

His first thought was remarking on the chill that came in through the window. But it was not unpleasant. The wind felt good on his naked skin—it made him feel alive. He moved his gaze away from the window and stared at the ceiling. Edward's vibrant green eyes scoured the rustic beams, observing a spider building its web, preparing its trap for any flies that would enter the room. But it was futile, he thought—the day was still too cold for flies. The spider would have to wait a bit more—until the warmth of the sun reached the earth.

He was disoriented at first. The shirt he wore was still wet from the previous night's sweat, making him shiver slightly at the chill in the room. His limbs ached to move and as he did so, Edward felt a dull ache in his left arm and shoulder. It was nowhere near the pain he had felt the previous night and it indicated that the severity of the infection was slowly dying away. He would heal, but not fast enough.

The masked man rested his head against the pillow, giving up on leaving his bed—for now. Instead, he opened his ears. For if he could not look out the window, he could at least listen; to the people walking on the streets, to the chatter of the Spaniards. A twinge of nostalgia washed over him. He had lived here with Sofia once, a long time ago. Edward had been but a commoner during that time, but he'd taken the burdens of much more. Seven years seemed a lifetime to him.

The door creaked open slowly as a head peeked in. Zoráida went gracefully to his side and sank down next to Edward as she saw that he was finally awake.

"How long have I slept?" his voice croaked. It was stiff from lack of use and there was still weakness in it. Zoráida's hands went to his shoulder, and they pushed aside the thin cotton shirt. She started removing the bandages, steadily, setting into a rhythm as she worked.

"It is midday. We did not wish to wake you," the young woman explained. The words rolled off her tongue, and she sounded like Sofia when she spoke.

"Jacob, Carlisle, and Ashiq?" he asked as he looked around the room, noticing for the first time that they were absent.

"I sent them with my brother to go see the city. They were getting restless." She removed the final bandage and revealed the open wound. The swelling had gone down considerably and there was no new formation of puss. Zoráida released the breath she'd been holding. When she had arrived with Carlisle the previous night, the young woman had feared for Edward's life, certain that he would not last the night. She was glad that she had been wrong.

As she continued taking care of him, her eyes went up and down, looking at a friend who had changed much since they had last met. He had been a young man then, just out of his teen years. He had been tall and lean, still growing into his limbs—they had been too long and his step awkward. Seven years seemed to have done him good when it came to his physique. He was as tall as ever, but through his soaked and torn shirt, she saw lean muscle—a defined torso and arms. His countenance had changed as well. He was no longer the hothead with the temper of a fury, who would get into fights, to get away from the stigma his mask held. When she met him, he had arrived from the east with a gypsy.

"Where is Sofía?" she asked casually as she slowly started removing the herbs from the wound and cleaned it once more with alcohol.

"We went our separate ways a few months ago. I do not know where she went after that." Edward grimaced at the memory of Sofia. He missed her—every moment of being in such a familiar place reminded him of her. Zoráida's caring hand came to rest on his arm.

"You will see her again if Allah wills it," she reassured him. Her words made him smile.

"You still don't talk like a Christian," he scolded. "I thought you said you and your family converted."

A sad smile spread on her plump lips. To Edward, the young girl he once knew had grown up to be a fine woman and there was a certain sadness that her situation held.

"My family did convert, but we can never leave centuries of traditions behind. I trust you, I will not pretend here, Edward," Zoráida said, turning serious as she placed a thin needle with tongs over a lit candle before drenching it in alcohol. She placed the thread in the clear liquor as well.

"Is that why your father was taken by the Inquisition? Because they unmasked you?" A stiff silence followed as she waited for the needle to cool down. Somewhere a bird chirped, landing on the windowsill—looking around for some food it might steal. When it found none, it flew away.

"No. Even if we remain true to our roots in our hearts, we try to blend in as much as possible. We go to mass like the rest of you, I even sneak in a confession here and there," she said, threading the needle, preparing to prick it into his skin. She spoke openly with Edward, knowing he would not judge her. Zoráida knew that he had never been one to follow religion tediously or blindly like so many others. He had been accepting of her family's way of life. She always felt a sense of peace as a child, knowing she did not have to act whenever she'd be in his presence.

"Is this what you must suffer? For the love you possess for this land?" he asked, looking at her dark eyes as she started sewing. He ignored the small stabbing pain of the needle as it plunged into his skin.

"This city fell to the Christians many decades ago. I have never known anything else but this; living in secrecy, afraid that every day will be my last." A church bell rang somewhere in the distance—a lone bell that sounded once. It ripped through their conversation like a dagger ripping through fabric. "You will understand, to some degree," she said after the bell had died down, nodding at the mask.

"I hide my face to spare everyone the sight of it," he muttered, a hiss escaping him as the needle plunged deeper than Zoráida intended.

"You once told me that when I was old enough, you'd show me your face."

"Don't change the subject, continue with what you were saying. I like hearing your stories," he argued as if scolding a sister. Edward felt a fatigue rush over him as he settled back into the fluffy pillows.

"They're not stories, Edward," she retorted angrily. A fiery passion bubbled under the surface, something that had not gone away since her childhood.

"You know what I mean," his dark voice spoke.

"Málaga was taken when my parents were young, I'm certain my father told you all about it when you were here," she continued.

"It was all Musa would ever talk about," Edward sighed, remembering the light that shone in his old friend's eyes as he spoke of another era, another time. "He said that he frequented Granada under the reign of Boabdil."

"He would tell me stories as well, every night before bed," she lamented as she sewed monotonously. They both turned silent as they remembered the past, a past that now seemed foreign to them. The world was slowly changing into something new, something they had never seen before and they did not know what to make of it.

"Why was he killed?" Edward insisted. Knowing why a great and kind man like Musa had been executed by the Inquisition would give the masked man closure after finding out about his death.

Zoráida hesitated as her hands froze mid-air. She let her dark green eyes wander over to meet his enigmatic ones. They waited for her answer, for her to reveal what she had been trying to ignore since the loss of Musa and her brother.

"He was a great physician. But whenever he failed to cure a patient, he would be blamed for it. Even if the illness was great or the wounds deep—it did not matter. So a few years ago my father decided to retire. But one night a wealthy merchant came running to our house, saying his pregnant wife was dying. My father went with him, alone, and did all he could to save the woman and child, but it was no use, they both died. The merchant blamed my father and said that he killed them deliberately because they were Christian and therefore my father must hate them. The Inquisition got wind of these accusations and came one night, taking him with them. They said they just had some questions and that he would most likely be back in the morning. But he never returned." Zoráida spoke with a strange detachment as she gently guided the needle, slowly closing the wound in his shoulder.

"They tortured him for days, or so they told my mother. He died after his heart gave out on the third day, the pain was too overwhelming for him. My brother soon followed the same fate after protesting," she whispered. An empty look spread in her eyes as something akin to hatred emerged from it. "I hope those priests end up in a similar situation someday so that they will feel the same pain they inflicted on him." Her jaw squared and her voice shook slightly as the words shot like arrows from her mouth.

"There is a saying in the east," Edward began, his own thoughts grim after having heard of Musa's demise. "They believe that whatever you do—good or bad—it comes back to you." There was a slight pause as he let the meaning sink in. "I am sorry to hear what happened, Musa and your brother never deserved such treatment. Your father was one of the best men I ever knew," Edward said, watching intently as she finished stitching his wound and proceeded to put an herbal paste on it.

"I hope that saying is true," she murmured softly, placing clean bandages over the wound. She was satisfied with her work and used it to push away the recent feelings of sadness and nostalgia that had emerged.

Both wallowed in the other's company. They felt like children, unaware of the world around them, protected by their innocence.

"I hear you are chasing after your fiancée," Zoráida whispered as she stared out the window, the song of the seagulls turned louder as the day continued its mellow pace.

"I wish to set sail tomorrow or the day after. I…must find her," he said through gritted teeth. Zoráida felt him tense next to her. Determination and a hint of fear reflected in the way he held himself. She did not ask the specifics. Edward had never been the one for explanations or long conversations, especially not when it came to his own personal life.

"I never thought of you as the marrying type," she continued. His masked head snapped up from the pillow, his eyes looking intently at her.

"You knew me when you were thirteen, how much could you have perceived then?"

"The mask only hides your face, but it cannot hide who you are—or were. You have greatly changed, Edward. But I also saw what you were; a free soul, searching to flee the constrictions that society would put on you. That is why you stayed with Sofía—that is why the mask tormented you so. I never thought anyone would manage to tie you down."

When she had known him, he and Sofia would travel from town to town, province to province, country to country. They never stayed for long. Edward would speak of his travels to her, speak of the wonders he had seen in France, Portugal, Italy and, even, North Africa. But her favorite stories were when he told her about the Far East, about a monastery he had spent the better part of his teenage years. He spoke of men with amazing fighting abilities, of a way of life very different from what he had seen in Europe. He spoke of philosophers and warriors.

Edward remembered that time as well. When he had first met Sofia, she had taken him east, to the Ming Kingdom. Far up in the mountains, an old acquaintance of hers gave them hospice and the young boy was taught and trained with the rest of the students his age at the monastery. When he became older, they would frequent a large neighboring city and he made friends with an old retired general who lent him heaps of tomes about the art of war. Through sheer curiosity and will, Edward would read those books day and night, having heated discussions with his friend who was amused that such a young boy would be interested in strategy. But, in the end, his studying had served him well.

"She is just a woman I am to marry, Zoráida," Edward muttered.

"No, she is much more than that, or you wouldn't blindly chase after her in such a state."

"I _care_ for her, yes. I made a promise, I gave my word to her that I would return to her, and I do not plan on breaking that word."

Zoráida scoffed at his weak explanation. "You cannot lie to me, Edward. I see that there is more than care in your heart. For you to sacrifice the freedom you have guarded for so many years means she must be more to you."

 _February 25_ _th_

There came a moment where Isabella could no longer move due to her back. She continued resting on her bed, never moving a muscle when Braun came to check on her. Her eyes would wander to the thick glass windows that stared at the never-ending sea.

Edward was dead.

The thought hurt more than she could bear. Isabella felt how she slipped, how she stopped caring about everything. At first, she had fought against it—the only fuel was her hatred for Braun. But soon she embraced it. Her mother would live out her life well in Adelton Hall—the only person left that she truly cared for was safe and it was all that mattered.

It was morning when Braun entered her quarters, the golden rays of the sun gliding across her face, warming her features. Behind him entered the ship's barber and physician. The man was barely a physician, he was a barber that had found an easy job working at ships with decent pay and housing. When he saw the young brunette sprawled on the bed, her back and shoulders bare where her beige dress had been torn, his eyes widened. Isabella's eyes locked with his for a moment as he neared her, but she made no move to turn away from him.

"I've been sent by his lordship, miss," he said nervously, feeling the intense stare of Braun on his back. She never answered him.

The barber sat down next to her and viewed the damage. He could remove the splinters, but there was little he could do for the infection. As he explained this to Braun, Isabella stared at the rolling waves, letting herself be calmed by the motions they made. She was surprised when two rough hands started removing the embedded splinters. The young woman screamed out in pain as the hands forcefully plied away the pieces of wood.

When all was done, she let out a painful breath of air, biting back tears of pain that threatened to spill. The wounds had reopened and droplets of blood spilled from them. The barber frowned at the sight.

"She will need a real physician, my lord. I cannot treat these wounds as they should be treated here." He turned to face Braun and gathered new courage. "We should dock in the nearest harbor and search for someone there," he said.

"The nearest port is Málaga. That damned storm a few days ago set us off course," Braun murmured pensively. He looked at Isabella's small form and his brows furrowed with slight worry. He did not wish to lose her to infection. Sleepless nights of worrying and thinking had finally given him an answer; he had other plans for her. "Let us dock there then," he decided, almost as if on a whim. The barber nodded and scurried away, leaving the two alone.

As soon as the door closed, Braun came over with a bowl of fresh water and some clean cotton cloth.

"Keep still," the older man murmured as he plunged the white cloth into the cold water and then carefully cleaned the reopened wounds. She shuddered at the cold touch and gritted her teeth. Isabella never showed her face, for the disgust it held at having Braun so near would be evident.

"I never meant for this to happen to you," he muttered softly, relishing in the sight of her lithe body. Braun could not help his hungry eyes wander over her form—she would do just fine, he thought. Isabella did not believe in his words of comfort.

"Is the mighty Lord Braun apologizing?" she spat, flinching as she moved to look him. Isabella fought hard to keep a mask of indifference when she saw dark eyes drill into hers. His thinning brown hair fell into his thin face, over his high forehead. He had found time to trim his goatee despite their situation. He looked as polished as she remembered him to be. Braun never answered her, instead he let out a dry laugh.

The disgraced lord put away the metal bowl and cloth and turned to leave. "Rest. I shall have someone take care of that back of yours," he reassured her.

When the door closed Isabella let her head fall down. She bit her lip and moved around on the bed, fighting to sit up—a feat she hadn't been able to accomplish for the last few days. She took the bowl and cloth, taking a part of the white fabric that was not stained with her blood—that was clean—and started washing her skin. It felt good when the cool water came in contact with her flesh.

Her heart clenched in a painful way as thoughts of Edward popped into her mind. She knew of her care for the masked man, of how much she enjoyed his company. She never knew her care had grown so much. Now that they were parted—never to be seen again, Isabella confessed to herself that she had grown to like Edward, in her own way. She admired him, even though he was arrogant and frightening at times. The fact that the man she had kissed—the man who had promised to come back to her was dead, ripped her heart open.

Isabella had never felt heartbreak before. She had read about it, heard about it, and even seen it. Never had the young woman expected it would be so painful; mentally and physically.

During the day it was easy to distract herself, listening to the men above deck, shouting, talking, and singing. But not during the long hours of the night. When the ship turned quieter than a graveyard in the early hours of the morning, she could not help as images of her fiancé's body slipped into the crevices of her mind. She imagined he lay on the cold palace floor, alone and ignored. She saw an unmasked face—twisted and disfigured, leaving him in shame. His face had been something he'd guarded for so long.

But, soon, another voice in her mind scolded her. How could she do this to herself? How could she be so pathetic? Yes, Edward, the man she had grown to like so was dead, he was gone. But she was alive, her mother was alive, Angloa was safe—thanks to Edward. There was something to return to. And what was more important, she found that she wanted to carry on, not for her father or her mother or even her country. No. This time it was different: Isabella wanted to live for herself.

As she washed away the dirt and blood, she washed away her indetermination and fears. They were replaced by stronger, more determined feelings. Her eyes wandered to the glass windows that looked out over the vast ocean. Isabella Swan would not give up. The young woman decided that whatever Braun had in store for her she would bear it—because she trusted herself. Because, beyond that horizon, something awaited her.

 _February 27_ _th_

"We have already wasted enough time. A ship sails for Rome later today and I want to board it," Edward said through gritted teeth. He rested in the confinements of the small chamber, Zoráida paid little heed as she looked over the stitches and reapplied more herbs to the area.

Carlisle sat in the small, uncomfortable chair and scratched his head. He knew Edward was right, they had spent too much time in Málaga. If they wanted to see Isabella again, they would have to leave soon. Jacob lay on the other bed, sleeping with his mouth open, a slight snore escaping now and then; he was exhausted. The young man had spent the whole night awake, first walking Zoráida and Ashiq home, then getting lost in the narrow streets. He had returned after in defeat, letting his shoulders sink further down as Carlisle asked him to fetch the young Morisco girl again.

"You have grown more impatient since I last saw you," the young woman muttered, bandaging the shoulder. "But I guess it cannot be helped. You have a duty and a word to keep," she continued, staring off into the distance. The wound would be fine, Edward could have left the previous day. Yet, she had asked him to stay. He reminded her of her past, of a time she had been happy—when her father and older brother had been alive. The masked man recognized the look in her eyes and his own expression turned grim. Carlisle read the eyes of his friend and got up from the chair. He went over to wake Jacob. It was time to leave the city.

"We will wait for you outside, Edward," he said, motioning for Ashiq to come. They were soon left alone and for the first time, Zoráida grew shy around him. She had always known what to say, how to look at him. Now she found no words. The reality was that he would leave. Edward had no wish to stay with her or her family—as was expected.

"I hope you find the happiness that has escaped you for so long." She placed a hand on his masked face. "I hope you will be able to discard this prison you live in and truly be free, Edward." Her words of wisdom drifted by him like a distant wind, stirring something that he always tried to ignore. How could such a young woman understand so much just by looking into his eyes?

"When we return, you should come with us, Zoráida. You and your whole family can live in peace in Angloa. No one will bother you under my roof," he said, ignoring words that rattled his core. Her piercing green eyes grew sadder as she looked away from him—out the window. He did not know what she gazed at—probably nothing—but he knew the look in those orbs, the emotions they held. It was something he had never truly gotten to feel.

" _This_ is and always will be my home." The light of day reflected on her tan face. "The way of life for my people has been extinguished long ago here. But this land; its sky, its earth, its winds, and trees—everything—is part of me and I will never be able to leave it." She turned to face him. "I stand like a tree here, with roots deeper than you can imagine. I was born here and I will die here. Even if I have to live in fear of expulsion, I will fight to remain here with all my strength," she said with such conviction that Edward felt a twinge of guilt for having asked her to come with him.

"You could never understand, you have always roamed this earth with Sofía, a free spirit. There is nothing tying you down."

"There is now, and she is being taken across the sea to a world she does not know," Edward said as he stared straight into her eyes. He could not help Zoráida; a sentiment that weighed heavily on his shoulders. But he could help Isabella.

Edward got up from where he lay, feeling renewed after having rested. He turned to the bed, where his now clean shirt and doublet lay folded, courtesy of Hala. Zoráida looked away as the bare-chested man started dressing his upper body. She started packing her own things together, realizing that this was their goodbye.

They moved slowly, forcing their movements as neither wanted to part ways again. They both were like an estranged brother and sister and as they walked out of the inn. After Edward paid the innkeeper, they stood face to face. His mask, deep within the hood, managed to peek from underneath it, allowing her a view of his eyes. In the distance, her brother returned with Carlisle and Jacob.

"I was never too good with goodbyes, you know that," Zoráida said, a faint smile spreading across her lips.

"I know." Edward saw his friends approaching, wading through the masses of people that kept to the slightly wider main street. "I will try to stop by on the way back," he continued. Zoráida stepped in closer, a determined look spread across her features.

"When you return, Edward, I will see your face," she said. It was not a request, nor a plea; that much was evident in her eyes. Instead, the words sounded like a premonition, a knowing that sparkled in her eyes. She caught him off guard and when he remained silent, she gave out a lighthearted laugh.

* * *

The wounds on her back had—as the barber predicted—festered. Isabella had become delirious with a fever and she kept hallucinating. There was a time where Braun would not leave her side, making sure she survived. He kept muttering that it was of the utmost importance that she remained alive.

They docked in the Spanish port early that morning, the sun was not yet up. Braun and his fellow men were on alert as he sent out one of the crew members to find a physician. The older man, Antoine Beauvais, was a Frenchman who had lived in Barcelona for a few years. He was familiar with the Spanish language and customs.

Antoine scoured the inner city, trying to find a suitable physician for the young woman the Angloan lord had in the main chamber. Many of the crew members who had decided to join Braun wondered who this noble lady was. A ship like theirs was not suitable for a woman like her, much less in the company of so many men. They had not been surprised when one of the men had broken in and almost raped the girl.

He stalked the streets, the sky brightening every second. Antoine paid little attention to the pedestrians that he pushed elbows with. There was one moment where, without looking, he bumped into someone.

"¡Perdón!" he exclaimed, looking up. His face dropped slightly as he was met by a tall man, hiding his face deep within a hood. Yet, Antoine spotted the throat—the skin—hidden by what appeared to be dark leather. The man muttered something and walked past him. He was flanked by two other men. A blond, well-dressed man looked back at him.

"Did he get your shoulder?" the blond asked, a look of worry spread across his features.

"Yes, but the wound didn't open," the low voice said from within the hood. When the other's expression did not change, Antoine heard an audible sigh. "You worry too much, Carlisle," he muttered. The Frenchman's eyebrow rose, he recognized the accent: Angloan. It was always strange to see Angloans leave their ships in foreign ports, especially if they were from higher classes. However, Antoine paid little heed to the strange trio.

He stalked through the narrow streets. Antoine kept his head low, keen on not getting mugged or getting into trouble. He knew it would be difficult to find a decent physician. Braun had told him that money was not a problem—not that it was what worried him. It was Sunday, soon everyone would attend mass; somewhere he should be too, but he guessed that Braun would not appreciate his sudden devoutness to God. Angloans and their lack of devotion. He would not be surprised if the whole island soon reformed its religion like some of the other European countries were speculating on doing.

Alas, it was still Sunday. It would be hard to get ahold of people now. Not that Christian physicians were that good, anyway. All knew that the Jewish and even the Moors were more refined and knowledgeable when it came to medicine.

So, without wasting much time, Antoine set out for the Jewish and mudéjar quarters to see if a kind—or greedy—soul would come back to the ship with him. It wasn't an ideal situation; like many other Europeans, he was prejudiced against those who weren't like him.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to those who have come from Secrets of the Court! Thanks to those who have reviewed as well. I always appreciate reviews, it doesn't take that long to type one up and they really mean the world to me. I do not have a schedule for posting, it will be when I have time and have gone through the chapter. I always seem to miss something when I edit, so I am currently going through Secrets of the Court for minor faults in grammar etc. If you find any grammatical errors here, please tell me!**

 **Anyways, hope you enjoyed this one. Cheers!**


	3. Chapter 3

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 3_

 _March 30_ _th_ _, 1461 – Cadherra_

Philip sat in the Throne Room, watching as young and old men from far and wide presented themselves, eager to form part of his new assembly. He was growing tired of old men, from old generations with no mind to renew and improve their country. Philip wanted new men with new ideas, ready to break with the tedious traditions that seemed so embedded into their foundations. If Angloa was to grow and improve, other men than those who currently had a grip on her had to do it. That much the king understood.

So far, out of the hundreds of applicants he had seen for the last few days, only a dozen stood out. There was one last man who would come to stand in front of him. Philip was tired and in a bad mood.

A young man with proud bearing stepped forward. He dressed in dark hoses and a green doublet with puffed upper arms, lined in silver. The young man had his fair hair cropped close to his shoulders and a fringe, fashionable at the time.

Philip didn't even bother to ask his name; such a fashion snob would serve him no good.

"From where might you be?" he asked, as he had asked all the others. The tone in his voice was slightly off-putting. The king did not mask his fatigue.

"From the island of Cantabria, Your Majesty," the lad said, confused that the king would not have his name first.

"Ah, yes, Cantabria. And what brings you here," Philip continued, lacing his voice with boredom.

"Well, I thought I'd come and offer you some advice. God knows you are in need of it, Your Majesty," the young man continued. The daring words were seen as an insult by many there present, but it piqued the interest in the monarch. For the first time, Philip took a good look at him and saw two deep-set gray eyes, staring fearlessly into his own. The man looked to be in his twenties, but there was a wisdom in his orbs that spoke beyond his years.

"And what advice would that be?" Philip said, humoring the young man.

"Well," he continued, his commanding voice settled into a pleasant tone as he started explaining. "I think Your Majesty made an excellent choice when you decided to bring in some fresh opinions and people into the folds of court; for now I am sure that you are more perceptive to the faults in your kingdom."

Philip leaned forward, intrigued by the words. "Continue," he said.

"You have done little else but listen to your old advisors, Sire. I understand these things can be complicated, and I have little experience in the matter. But I do understand one thing, that listening to the people is the most important thing any king can do, and you have been turning a deaf ear to them," the man continued. Philip knew he was right. Ever since he had been crowned he had been so occupied with making sure the most basic things worked, that he had paid little heed to anything else.

"And what do the people say?" he asked.

"Well, they starve, Your Majesty. They are heavily taxed by your brother and other lords who feel they can do whatever they please as you do not seem to be paying attention." Some of the other lords present gasped at the young man's words.

"How impertinent!" one of them exclaimed, seemingly offended on the king's behalf. But Philip liked what he heard. He saw wisdom, laced with some arrogance. In some senses, the man reminded him of himself when he was younger. He liked the truthfulness of his words, but also how he delivered those words so expertly.

He leaned back in his chair and looked at the young man. "What is your name?"

"Thomas Athar, Your Majesty," the young man answered.

"Thomas Athar," Philip repeated as if saying the words would help him decide. He eyed the man once more. "Are you son of some lord? I swear I have heard that name before," the king said.

"No, Sire, I am no lord's son. My grandfather was a mercenary, he fought in the war of independence many years ago, before your or my time, and he won many battles. He was knighted by one of the three on the battlefield of Sorossa," Thomas explained. Philip snapped his fingers.

"Of course!" he said, delighted to hear the words. "Even though you are not of noble birth, your words and convictions are reminiscent of a true nobleman. Perhaps you are more so than some of my lords in here," he chuckled, looking around. Some lords were visibly offended but never spoke up against their king.

"I am glad to hear it, Sire. I wish to prove that I can live up to these expectations you have of me and more," Athar answered haughtily. It provoked yet another lighthearted chuckle in the king, an arrogant eyebrow rose as he contemplated the young man. It did not take long for the monarch to decide.

"Indeed," he said. "Then so be it, Thomas Athar. I shall have you for my council and have you at my side. I hope you will not disappoint me," the king smiled enigmatically.

Athar bowed deeply, never imagining that he—the grandson of a lowly knight—had just come to be a royal advisor, by his own merit.

 _May 3_ _rd_ _, 1461 – Cadherra_

"These are alarming reports, Your Majesty, and they are growing in number." A man around Philip's age stood in front of him, worry creased his sunburnt face as he fiddled with the parchment in his hand. They sat in the assembly room of Adelton Hall. His new and old advisors listened attentively. The man continued skimming through the words on the parchment that had been handed to him during the early hours of the morning.

"We cannot shut the people out when they need us, now more than ever," the king said, ignoring Lord Flannigan snickering at him when he thought himself unobserved. Athar agreed as he silently nodded along with the king.

"If the plague spreads, it could wipe out half of the country. Then who would there be left to govern?" asked a young snarky lord, his slanted eyes turned into two malicious slits as he cast a glance in Athar's direction. The new addition of Athar and some other men had not been welcomed by the others. The older generations would often talk of the young newcomers, saying they poisoned the mind of the arrogant king.

"If we sit quietly on our behinds, the plague will indeed get worse," Philip cried, outraged with the lord. "It is indeed easy to withdraw into your castle and wait out the storm, but not that many people are as lucky. We need physicians to care for the sick, we need people to remove the bodies from the streets. But most of all, we need to distribute food, for those households that have already lost their laboring relatives," came the wise words of the monarch. His talks with his new advisors had opened his eyes to the needs of his people.

"The physicians do not know how to cure this disease," spat another lord.

"No, Lord Raleigh, but they can ease the pain of the suffering," scolded Athar in his light tone. "The least we can do is show compassion for the suffering and help with what we can," he continued. His stern look managed to silence the arrogant lord whose mouth turned into a thin line.

"And who will pay for all of this? I am sure that few people will remove rotting bodies on the streets for free, just as the physicians will not willingly risk their lives tending to the sick for free," commented Flannigan.

"The crown will cover what it can, and the rest I will pay out of my own pocket," growled Philip, wishing for the old crow to be silent for once. Flannigan did not speak against the king, but his displeasure was evident in his frown. The wrinkles grew deeper in his forehead—if such a thing was possible. The white tufts on the balding head flew with him as he quietly shook his head.

Magnus, also present at the assembly, had scarcely spoken. He had been reprimanded by his brother a few weeks earlier. Having been assigned with keeping up the royal treasury his greedy wife, Rebecca Trienne, had seen it as an opportunity. The minx had managed to persuade him to put a few coins in his own pocket, to add to their own wealth. Magnus had looked at that innocent expression as she patted her ever growing belly and he could not help himself. He had been ashamed, feeling his heart beat as he filled a small purse with gold coins, grinding his teeth as he felt the leather weighed down by the metal.

It had been easier the third and fourth times. By the tenth or so he did not even think about it. But he had swiftly been unmasked, by a young lad who, after having gone through the records, had found something amiss. Soon whispers that the brother of the king—the prince—stole money from the crown floated through the small streets of Hayes. They spread to Coldwick and up north, even reaching New London. Thomas Athar had been the one to muster up enough courage to openly speak against Magnus.

And Philip had listened to that young man.

Magnus looked down at his feet. His brother had never expressed it in words, but he knew that he had lost some of his trust. It was a hard blow to the prince who looked up to Philip in so many ways. He had failed him with such dishonorable conduct. Philip had hushed the whole thing down, but the damage was already done.

"I will pay from my own pocket as well," Magnus spoke up, after having gathered enough courage. All faces turned to meet his. Philip seemed surprised at first, but then a genuine smile spread across his features as his brother tried to redeem himself.

"Thank you, brother. Your generosity will surely inspire others to do likewise," Philip encouraged in a grateful manner, taking a quick look around the room. Some other lords voiced their willingness to contribute and soon, Philip had enough funds to care for the whole country, in case the plague spread.

"Lord Swan," the king said, turning to a man at the end of the table. His proud chocolate brown eyes met those of the king. "You will take charge of this new project," the king commanded. Enrique Swan, of Spanish decent, gave a small nod. He had been added to the king's council at the same time as Athar had. The Spaniard had married a local Angloan beauty, and he had decided to settle down on the island—as was his wife's wish.

"I will, Your Majesty," he answered in his Spanish accent.

"Good. Then I declare this session ended." The king dismissed his advisors, keen on returning to his wife and son.

* * *

 _February 27_ _th_ _, 1520 - Málaga_

He watched with a sinking heart as yet another door closed in front of his face. No one was willing to help him, despite the money he offered. Antoine stared at the purse filled with gold coins. These people might not be as greedy as he had thought.

While he asked around, he found that there had been a man who used to help people like him; Musa the physician, living north of the city. Musa himself was dead, but his daughter had learned her father's trade and would come to the aid of those who asked—if she deemed them worthy.

The Frenchman wasted no time as he slowly trailed the path to Musa's house. The stench of the city was not as prevalent here. Incense and floral perfumes wafted heavy through the air, masking the foul smells of waste that the newer quarters saw.

He arrived at a horseshoe door, the bright cedar wood was faded, not as contrasting against the bright walls as it used to be. He knocked—the sound drumming in his ears as he prepared for yet another rejection. Antoine heard cautious steps from behind the door and someone opening the small panel at eye level.

"¿Sí?" came a weary voice as two dark eyes looked out from behind the door.

"I seek Zoráida," Antoine said in his accented Spanish. He tried hard to mask the tiredness in his voice from having walked around for so many hours. The sun was still high in the sky, burning at him despite the chilly February air.

The eyes of the woman were flashing. "You will not find what you seek here, buenos días," she hissed, slamming the panel shut. Antoine heard mutters as the woman moved away from the door.

"I can pay," Antoine exclaimed in desperation. The girl Zoráida was his last hope. Antoine was hopeful that she and her family would be desperate enough for money to accept his offer. The woman still moved away, but now a new voice arrived. It was softer, younger and spoke a language Antoine did not understand. A heated discussion emerged from the two women as he stood there, clutching the bag of money. He knew how it looked; he, a complete stranger, asking for a young woman to come with him.

A sigh sounded and soon the cedar door glinted open. Someone sneaked out from behind it. Antoine's eyebrows reached his hairline as he caught sight of the young beauty before him. Her enigmatic eyes drilled holes into his soul as an exotic air of indifference extended around her.

"I am Zoráida, who asks for me?"

"My master, an Angloan. His… erm… _fiancée_ took a bad fall on deck when we came here and her back scraped across the wood. It became infested with splinters that have now infected the whole area. We hope that you could take a look at it," he explained. When she made no move to answer him, Antoine whisked forth the heavy leather purse, clinking it in his hand. "My lord would be very generous," he added, hoping she would accept. However, the action seemed to have insulted the young woman.

"I do not so readily accept an offer because of money. Who knows what would happen to me if I followed you," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"I give you my word that no harm shall befall you, señorita— "

"I am sure you would believe that," she muttered. But, instead of thinking of the money, Zoráida thought of the wounded woman. "How badly hurt is she?"

"The barber who removed the splinters says it's beyond his reach to treat her."

"You removed the splinters?"

"Yes," Antoine said, hesitating as her tone turned grave.

"It could have worsened the wound if you did not do it properly," Zoráida reprimanded, thinking of how Edward had looked when he had come to her. She wouldn't be surprised if the woman's wounds were in a similar state. Zoráida squared her jaw as she started weighing the cons and pros. It did not take long for the young woman to decide.

"Where is she?"

"On my master's ship, in the harbor. It is the only Angloan ship in port, you will recognize it by its flag," he said, feeling the knot lessen as he realized that she was considering going with him.

"Very well, I shall go. But before I do I need my supplies and friends accompanying me. I cannot afford to trust blindly in strangers," she said, wary of the Frenchman before her. "There are many that trade in slavery these days. I do not wish to become one." Antoine grew offended at the remark.

"Madam, I would never—"

Zoráida only shook her head. "It does not matter how honorable you say you are, I will not be taken from my family. I shall meet you at the ship in two hours. I will bring my father's friends with me," she finished, ignoring Antoine's offended expression. She took in his appearance; he could indeed be working on a trade ship, one of those who took women as slaves and brought them to the other end of the Mediterranean. The market for such goods was rewarding and many favors could be bought trading with human lives.

Antoine held his tongue, knowing he could not afford to lose the last person that might help him. He bowed stiffly and set out back to the ship. If the two hours had passed and Zoráida had not yet come, he would ask a small group of men to come with him and bring her by force. Or he would threaten her with the Inquisition, he knew how afraid the _Moriscos_ were of those priests.

* * *

Seagulls flew over the Spanish town Málaga. It was crowded by the harbor as the tide rose, many were ready to sail to new lands across the Atlantic and the Mediterranean.

Edward stood on deck, his cape clinging to his body, his hood down, letting the salty winds caress his masked face. Now that he was better—healed, he could finally enjoy what he had missed so much; being at sea.

There was something magical about the far ocean where the never-ending waters met the broad horizon. He stared at the line that would never come close no matter how fast you sailed toward it. The crewmen on board the ship, most were from the Italian peninsula or the Spanish coastal town, ran around, preparing the boat.

"I cannot say I will enjoy this trip," Carlisle muttered, walking up beside him. Edward, curious about such a statement, turned to ask his friend why he had uttered such words. He grew silent when his question was answered. The young man next to him was already showing signs of nausea, his skin slightly paler and growing clammy.

"Did you have a similar reaction on the ship from Angloa?" There was a hint of amusement in his voice that irked Carlisle.

"You know I did," Carlisle muttered back, gritting his teeth. "Blasted ship and the men who invented sailing." The words provoked a slight chuckle in the masked man. Heads from the Italians and Spaniards turned, their eyes growing wide—who knew the masked man could laugh? He seemed like a menacing giant in his threatening attire and imposing mask. The ship's captain had almost not allowed him as a passenger the previous day. But some coaxing from Edward and a few gold coins had been enough to persuade the stout man.

"Well, hopefully, everything will go smoothly," Edward said, turning grim. "Roads may have highwaymen and bandits, but the seas have storms and pirates."

"Storms _and_ pirates?" came another voice. It was Jacob, joining them after having explored the ship. "The captain should pay _us_ for being on this ship. If we were attacked, I doubt very much that most of the sailors here could defend themselves," Jacob said hotheadedly, resting his hand on his sword.

"You would not want to meet the pirates of the Mediterranean," Edward cautioned, turning to stare at Jacob. "Ghastly men, blackguards of the worst sort," he continued, concealing a faint smile as the younger man's casual demeanor gave way to worry.

"I have heard some pirates are cannibals, that they eat their victims," Carlisle joined in. Teasing Jacob helped him ignore his slight nausea while it helped Edward stop worrying about Isabella, even if for a slight moment. Jacob let them do as they pleased, happy that he could help both his friends take their minds off their worries for an instance.

"You snicker like brothers; the strangest brothers I have ever seen!" a soft accent traveled their way that they could not place. It softened his English pronunciation. A tall, middle-aged man with curly raven locks and black eyes walked over to them. He bore a short, shaggy beard that hinted at a goatee underneath it, alas it had probably been weeks since its last trimming. He looked roguish as he had one ear pierced, dressed in Venetian clothes and kept a small, ornate pistol tied next to his hip. It was the captain of the ship.

"If we are brothers, they treat me like the youngest," Jacob snickered, giving the other two a playful glare.

"That is because you _are_ the youngest," Carlisle retorted, crossing his arms.

Jacob looked at Edward, pointing at him in disbelief. "Are you certain?"

"I can assure you, you are the youngest, Jacob," Edward deadpanned. The look on Jacob's face provoked a hearty laugh in the captain.

"I was against having you on board, but it seems you three shall provide me with much entertainment on this long journey. Come, my friends, I will show you to your quarters."

"We are much obliged, Captain…?"

"Juán Mejías, at your service."

The three of them started following Juán to go under the deck when something caught Edward's eye.

"Is that not an Angloan flag?" he stated out loud. Juán turned around and followed Edward's gaze to look at the ship he stared at.

"You have a good eye, señor. It arrived earlier today—some merchant ship. Apparently, one of the men on board was wounded. It must have been the captain or the second in command because they sent out someone to search for a physician," the Spaniard explained.

"I see information spreads fast here," Carlisle commented.

"But of course, señor. I always make it my business to know everyone else's business." Juán blinked, flashing a charming grin. "Now, come with me so that I might show you where you can rest. We sail shortly, the tide is almost ready.

The three men followed him, but Edward's eyes kept wandering to the Angloan ship. Something about it seemed strange to him. A shiver went through his spine and his sore muscles tensed. It could be Braun's ship, but Braun had set out a few hours before them. The other fact was that they had spent a few nights in Málaga, making it impossible for the lord to arrive just now. No, it could not be Braun, and therefore Isabella could not be on board that ship.

* * *

It had started to get dark when the small group made its way through the lit streets of Málaga. Most of them dressed to blend in, even Zoráida. She knew that it was better that way. Her father's friends had given it no second thought when her brother had run around their neighborhood, rallying them to her side. They had accepted a small pay to escort her safely to the ship and back to her home. This time it was not Edward Cullen who sought her aid, but an unknown stranger on an unknown ship. She would not take the same foolish decision she had done when she followed Carlisle, only accompanied by her brother. This time she would play it safe.

There, at the docks, they saw the Angloan ship and the group cautiously neared it. By the ramp leading up on deck she saw the Frenchman from before; Antoine. He looked around, worried that Zoráida would not show. But then he saw her shouldered by many fearsome men—dressed like common Christians, almost blending into the masses—almost.

"You are late." Antoine frowned as she neared him. A green bag was thrown over her shoulder, her enigmatic eyes pierced into his.

"But I am here," she said in a tone just as enigmatic as her stare. It made the Frenchman seize with his reprimand, only nodding. He knew she was right, it was better that she showed up late than never showing up at all. Zoráida looked around, few of the sailors were on deck. The newcomers did get a few curious glances cast their way from the men who stood on the boat, working hard to prepare it for its next voyage.

"Come, I will show you to her," Antoine said, motioning for her to follow him. Zoráida stepped on the ramp, hesitant at first, but when her father's friends made a move to follow her, as well as Ashiq, she breathed out. The young woman knew she was safe in their company. Antoine made no move to stop them, she had requested their presence after all.

They walked across the deck, being swabbed clean by a very young sailor, not yet out of his teen years. He did not look up from his task as the group passed him by. He seemed subdued by his station, always keeping his eyes on the floor, to avoid trouble.

Antoine showed them to the door leading to the main chambers below deck. The broad-shouldered men had trouble getting through the small door and some had to go sideways as they squeezed through. Yet, they never complained about it. After followed a series of narrow wooden corridors until they came to a shut door. Antoine knocked on the door and received a terse response. But before he entered, he turned to the group behind him.

"This is her ladyship's chambers. I suspect she will not want a group of unknown men to be allowed entry. I must, therefore, ask that the rest of you stay here and only allow the girl access," he explained to the men. But they did not understand him as they did not speak English. Zoráida translated what Antoine had said in a language that was not Spanish, probably some form of mozárabe or perhaps even Arabic. Her words did not please them.

"We cannot protect you if you go in there alone," one of them said to her.

"You will be right here, outside of the door, and if I should shout, you will hear me. Trust in that, I beg of you," she begged in a sweet voice, trying to calm the situation down. She did not need them to become agitated—in turn making the inhabitants of the ship wary of them. A squabble was not what they needed now. They nodded after having whispered amongst themselves in unison.

"I will go in alone, but my friends will stay right here, just in case," she said haughtily. Antoine nodded in agreement, thus opening the door for her.

Zoráida stepped into the chamber, trying to ignore the slight twinge of nervousness that ignited in her being as she was left to fend for herself. The young Morisco girl swallowed deeply before she took in the surroundings.

The chamber was small. Directly in front of her, the main part of the wall was made up of windows, giving an impressive view of the horizon. The sun had started to go down but it was still light, only the colors had turned a shade deeper, a hint of orange now emerged in them.

Next to the door, a little part away from it was a grand bed, suited to hold at least two people. Sprawled on it lay the still form of a woman. Her auburn locks covered her face and her back was bared, the bandages removed, showing the red and irritated skin where blisters had formed from the removed splinters. White covers had been brought up to just above her hips, giving her some modesty. Next to the bed, on the other side, sat a man in a chair, staring out at the horizon, deep in thought. He was older than the girl and Zoráida guessed he was around fifteen or twenty years her senior. His brown hair had started thinning at the temples and his goatee gave his angular face an even more angular look that did not do him any favors. His face turned to meet hers and something in his dark eyes made Zoráida wish she were somewhere else. She had always trusted her intuition; it told her not to trust this man.

"Ah, I see the physician has finally arrived," he drawled in a slightly irritated tone. The man rose up from the chair, standing tall and proud as he walked over to her in heavy steps. "I could not believe it when Antoine told me it was a woman that had agreed to help my Isabella," he continued. The remark made Zoráida raise a delicate eyebrow and scoff, offended.

"Yet, here I am, you agreed to get my help," she pointed out.

"I hope we made the right choice," the man said, a thin smile spreading on his lips, appearing false and unnerving to her.

"Well then, Mr…?" she trailed off, not knowing his name.

"I am _Lord_ Oscar Braun and this here is my fiancée. We were on our way back from Venice when she took a bad fall and hurt her back," Braun explained. Zoráida looked at the back. Those were wounds sustained from more than a bad fall. She eyed him again but did not voice her thoughts, instead, she went over to the young woman, still not having shown any signs of lucidity at her presence. The young woman sat down on the bed and her hands went to touch the arm of the blonde.

"My lady," she said in her accented English. Isabella turned to face her and Zoráida took in the beautiful face of the woman before her. She saw someone very different from her staring with a subdued fire in her eyes.

"I will request that you leave me alone with the patient, my lord," Zoráida said as she started emptying the contents of the bag on the vast bed next to her. Braun frowned at the words.

"I'd rather be near my intended," he demanded, moving to sit down on the chair again.

Zoráida rose up, a contained anger present in her exotic features. "I mean to remove the covers of this woman to examine for more wounds. You will have to leave if you have any respect for her modesty," she snickered. Braun's mouth turned into a thin line.

"I will be standing right outside," he finally said after a pregnant pause.

When the door had closed, Zoráida let out a breath and checked on Isabella. Slowly, working out of habit, she started treating the wounds, as gently as she could. First, she disinfected them, washed them with alcohol, taking great care not to hurt the young woman too much. After she checked for any more splinters that the barber might have missed. Zoráida took some sterilized pincers and set out to pluck them from the irritated flesh. It was a long task, monotonous, and the minutes went by in complete silence.

"You will not scar, not too much," she finally said to the woman she was treating. Zoráida received no answer.

"Did your fiancé do this to you?" she asked after a while, completely ignoring that the question was out of place.

"He is not my fiancé," came the reply. Hatred laced the Angloan's voice as she turned her head to face Zoráida. The response did not surprise the latter.

"That much is obvious," Zoráida responded. She continued plucking small pieces of wood that had embedded itself deep within the skin of the fair woman.

"He did not do this to me, but he might as well have," Isabella continued. Tears of pain streamed down her face as the pincers dug into her open flesh, but she refused to scream out in pain.

They both said little after that. Isabella felt herself relax at the delicate touch of the unknown woman that tended to her. She let her mind wander as the last of the splinters were removed. Zoráida started applying a herbal paste to the wounds, letting it seep into the open skin, to heal it faster. After, she started putting on sterilized bandages, washed in vinegar, taking care to do so slowly.

"I have a group of my father's friends with me, here outside. I am certain that if I asked, they could get you out of here and we could hide you at our home," Zoráida offered. It was spontaneous on her part. She had not thought it through. But seeing the subdued suffering in the foreigner sparked something within her. Perhaps it was pity or a sense of solidarity.

Her words inspired hope in Isabella, there was a chance she might escape Braun. She turned to look at Zoráida. "How many men?" Her words were barely a whisper.

"Five—seven counting me and my youngest brother," she said. The hope lit inside of Isabella swiftly disappeared. Five men would not stand a chance. Between Braun and Antoine out in the hallway, half of them would perish, even more: Braun was an experienced swordsman after all.

"It is not enough," she said, feeling her voice tremble. "They will kill all of you before we make it to port. If we made it off the ship and ran to Málaga, Braun would stop at nothing to get to me. I am part of a personal hatred he held for someone," she said distantly.

"Someone you love?"

"It is complicated," Isabella trailed off. All she received was a smile.

"Sometimes revealing our pains will help us deal with them," Zoráida offered. She suspected Isabella had no one else to talk to.

The trembling sigh revealed the pained state of mind of the wounded Angloan. "He killed the man I was to marry."

"I am sorry," Zoráida said distantly. She felt Isabella's pain. She had not lost a lover, but she had lost a father and a brother. She knew the pain that death of someone close brought on. "I wish I could help you." They both sat there for a while in silence, enjoying each other's company.

She had bound the bandages a long while ago, but yet the Morisco girl lingered. Zoráida took Isabella's hands in her own and stared deep into her eyes. Her emerald irises glowed in the absence of daylight as the sun started sinking deeper and deeper on the horizon. A deep connection of understanding passed between both strangers.

She felt the other reach for something and Isabella glanced down. Her eyes widened as a small curved knife with a soft leather sheath in white was placed into her hands. Zoráida closed Isabella's hands around it and looked back into the thankful depths of the woman she could not save. Zoráida usually carried such daggers with her as protection—against whatever might come. But it was clear that Isabella needed it more.

"Hide this. Maybe someday it will become useful to you," she whispered. Isabella gripped the strange knife tightly—as if it were her only lifeline, her only comfort in the world.

"Thank you," she said, a pained expression flashed across her face. She promptly hid the knife under the pillows she had been resting on. Zoráida, still unable to leave, fixed the last of the bandages in place. Something in the young Morisco girl worked against her as she finally stood up. She did not want to go from that young woman, broken as she was; in body and soul. Yet, Zoráida had seen something in the depths of her brown eyes, a small fire, a sleeping tiger, ready to be awakened at the right time. She hoped it would be sooner than later; if the girl wished to live in this harsh world.

She monotonously gathered her things. Their exchange had been a brief one, but a meaningful one. Zoráida bowed deeply before going to the door, a gesture of respect. Maybe they could have been friends in another life—maybe.

 _February 28_ _th_

When morning dawned on the last day of the month, Braun went to inspect a sleeping Isabella. She was dressed in a thin, white dress. Its back was cut open, revealing the bandages, sullied by the herbal paste that the Morisco girl had placed on her the previous evening.

A door shutting slowly woke her from her slumber. Zoráida had given her something to drink the previous night, which had sent Isabella into a dreamless sleep. She had not rested so well in weeks. She looked out the window and saw that they were out at sea once more.

"It seems that the Morisco girl worked wonders on you," Braun said in a merry tone as he went to sit down on the chair next to the bed. Isabella felt the blade under her pillows, gently clutching it, feeling safe having a weapon so close to her person.

"She did," was all Isabella managed without lashing out at him.

"She left some more of that paste and clean bandages for me to change," he continued.

"I'd rather Antoine do it," Isabella snapped, her voice short and stern. She'd rather have anyone else than Braun touch her at the moment. He sighed.

"I'm trying, Isabella—"

"I am _Miss Swan_ to you. You have no right to use my Christian name after what you did to me, to my fiancé," she spat. Braun was taken back by her ferocity.

"It seems the good night's rest has also given you your spirit back," he murmured, something in his voice unsettled her.

"Get out," she hissed, turning to face him, thus letting go of the knife that was stored under her pillow. When Isabella sat up she got a clear view of his face and did her best to hide her own expression. Perhaps it was because she had been so long with Edward, getting used to his mask, to only be able to read him by the eyes and the movement of his mouth. Now Braun's face was like an open book to her. She saw lust shining in those dark depths as his eyes trailed over her lithe form, taking in every little curve of her body. But there was something else she saw there, something she had seen before. It was a look she had welcomed in Edward but abhorred in Braun. It was worry. The expression was overshadowed by the want that was so evident in his eyes. She could understand why, she was dressed in barely anything, leaving little to the imagination. Braun was a man at sea, far away from any other woman that could offer him the pleasures he so clearly needed. But she could hint at worrying, different from Edward's but clearly there.

Braun worried for her, in his own twisted way. The notion disgusted her. But soon her mind started working. She could benefit from this, she could kindle this small flame within her.

Isabella settled back in the pillows when he did not make a move to leave. She faked a painful hiss—as if the movement had aggravated the wound. Braun squared his jaw while his eyes drifted to her back.

"I can send for Antoine, but I do not know where he is. It could take some time, and I see that you are clearly in discomfort," he said.

"Very well," Isabella said, lacing her voice with pain. "I will let you change the bandages, but only this time. Then I want you gone from my sight," she spat, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. She saw a twitch in his lips. He probably thought her newfound ferocity charming—what a strange man he was.

Braun went to sit next to her on the bed and gently put aside her auburn locks, ignoring how his blood was currently traveling south as he stared at her bandaged back. When Isabella made no move to push him away, he carefully removed the bandages, one by one, revealing the skin beneath. He cleaned away the paste with fresh seawater, satisfied that the redness had died down and that the blisters were smaller. He cleaned his own hands and started rubbing the paste on her back. He did it slowly, taking pleasure in feeling the soft skin beneath his hands.

Isabella had to fight hard not to take the knife from beneath the pillow and plunge it deep into his heart. She could hear his breath quicken and she imagined what he must be feeling and thinking at the moment. She had never seen Braun like this—or perhaps she had always been blind to such things until she had wanted to see them. Every touch of his on her skin made her want to vomit. She could only imagine him piercing Edward with his sword, unmasking him and leaving his exposed face for the world to see. But she pushed through her own feelings, telling herself that when she was healed, there would be many opportunities for her to escape. Her hand slipped once more under the pillow and Isabella touched the knife that lay hidden.

* * *

 **A/N: Deep thanks, as always, to those of you who have reviewed/followed/favorited. I was a tad late in posting this chapter since I've been away on vacation for the last two weeks (a much-needed vacation). But now I'm back and eager to post. I'm constantly going through old chapters, finding faults and things I wish to improve (I'm a desperate perfectionist) but I wish to finish this fic before I do some serious revising of "Secrets of the Court". Could you believe I'm already thinking of a small spin-off for this trilogy? It's just an idea, nothing I've started yet. I want to see how this series goes firstly :)**

 **Explanation of the following word:**

 _ **Mozárabe:**_ **(Mozarabic), here I refer to the language and not the people (who were the Christians that lived in Spain under Morish rule). It refers to a range of dialects spoken in Al-Andalus (morish Spain), descending of Latin, faintly influenced by the Arabic spoken at the time there.**

 **I hope you liked this chapter. A review is always nice, only takes 5 seconds ;)**

 **Cheers!**


	4. Chapter 4

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 4_

 _May 19_ _th_ _, 1461 – Cadherra_

Philip paced back and forth in that desolate hallway. Even though they were practically at summer's doorstep, a coldness overtook his body and soul. The worry was so present on his face that no one close to him wanted to disturb. His hands were clasped behind his back as he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The door next to him suddenly opened. The king rushed to the physician. But when he heard the sobs of his wife, he understood it was no use. Marianne tried to contain her cries as she sat by the bed of her son, not wanting to leave his side.

The physician's face was reddened with anxiety and almost guilt. "Your Majesty—"

"My son, will he be alright? Is it just a cold as we suspected?" Philip tried to stay brave and not let too much vulnerability show through as he spoke with the aging man before him.

"The prince is showing the first signs of the plague," the man before him forced the words— strangled and strange. It sounded like a mere whisper to Philip then. For which parent could even begin to comprehend that their child was struck by a mortal disease? At first, Philip would not accept it. He felt older then—as if his years had suddenly caught up with him. The king was no longer that once young and charismatic prince, nor the arrogant monarch who would do anything for his country.

He was only a parent, faced with the potential death of his child.

The king stared emptily into the eyes of the physician. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked in a voice so hopeless that the physician felt the need to step back.

"We caught it at an early stage. There might still be hope, Your Majesty." But Philip did not believe him. The look in the medic's eyes had told him enough. And the cries of his wife bore straight into his soul.

He pushed past the man to join Marianne and Edmund. "I urge Your Majesty to be cautious. The disease is highly contagious," the physician said after him. But Philip didn't listen, just as the queen had not listened.

He then saw the small figure of a boy, shivering as fever took him. His pale face was twisted in pain as he gently cried. Marianne cried with him, not wanting to let go of his hand. She turned to meet her husband, looking as lost as he felt. "Oh, Philip!" she exclaimed, opening her arms so that they might embrace. He gently hugged her, trying to be strong for the two of them. Marianne did not feel like a queen then. She felt all her power as a monarch was useless if it could not be used to help her child.

"They say there might be a chance. Tonight will decide Edmund's fate," she hiccupped. Philip gritted his teeth. But he masked his worry with a smile.

"Then I am sure our son shall live. I shall stay with him—"

"No!" she argued. "You cannot be here. If it is the plague—" Marianne could not believe what she was saying. "Then you must be kept safe."

"And what of you, my love?"

"A king is invaluable, a queen is replaceable," she sighed into his neck, her tears dampening his skin. Philip reacted strongly against those words. She never knew how invaluable she was to him.

As night fell, the monarch told his servants that he was retiring. When the castle seemed quiet, he snuck out of his bed. Philip silently walked with one wax candle in hand to the chapel.

As he entered the modest construction, the cross caught his eyes. The king was not precisely religious by nature but he felt he had no one else to turn to.

He slowly walked to the altar and kneeled at it, commencing a long night of praying. But Philip saw it more like begging. He put all his energy into it and as the hours ticked by, his stiff body protested. However, the monarch bit through the pain, ignoring his aching limbs.

 _May 20_ _th_ _, 1461_

As dawn neared, the king was still at the altar, begging the heavens to save his boy. He saw the situation as unjust. How could God punish him when he had done nothing but help his people? He did not see the plan of the Lord in taking his boy from him.

He tried to ignore the coldness of the stone chapel. The sigh echoing through it reverberated through him and a shiver struck him, unlike anything he'd felt before. Philip felt watched at that moment. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep that started playing tricks on his mind. But the king sensed something looking over him.

It was one of the priests who found the otherwise proud king, kneeling admits lit wax candles, staring at the cross that floated before him. Daylight spilled into the enclosed space, disrupting the darkness that otherwise enveloped him. Philip ignored the footsteps that neared him. At this point, he was too afraid to hear any news regarding his son.

"Your Majesty?" the priest said in astonished disbelief as he neared the altar. The monarch was dressed in nothing but a long white nightgown and a purple velvet robe lined in gold thread. When the man would not react to his calls, the priest slowly reached out to gently shake his shoulder.

"What news of my son?"

The priest then smiled, alas the king could not see it. "The prince lives to see another day," was all he said. The monarch turned to face him—his face exhausted from lack of sleep, but gratefulness shone in his eyes as he looked back at the cross. "It seems your prayers were heard."

Philip got up, against his protesting limbs, and darted to his son's bedroom. There he found Marianne, speaking to the physician. It seemed she had spent the whole night awake, outside of her Edmund's chambers. Both parents had watched over their child, and it seemed to have paid off.

When she saw her husband, dressed in his nightclothes, her smile grew. "My love!" she exclaimed. When he neared them, the king only had to take one look at the physician to get a full report on his son's status.

"It seems the fever has broken. I cannot yet say with certainty, but it appears His Royal Highness will survive this ordeal," the old man said, a proud smile gracing his features. The grin became even wider when the king gave out a laugh, tears threatening to escape his eyes. The past two days had been hell, but it seemed the royal family would pull through. He opened the door to see his son. But the physician cautioned him.

"Sire, we are still not entirely sure that it is not the plague. Yesterday we took little precautions. But today we need to be wary. We suspect it is airborne," he said, handing a piece of white cloth to the monarch and some gloves. "I suggest you use these and then throw them away into the fire, just in case." Philip looked at the mask.

"Am I to appear like some sort of bandit before my son?" he exclaimed, suddenly furious.

"Dear," his doting wife said, moving in to save the physician. "It is only a precaution. I had to wear the same thing when I walked inside. The maids attending Edmund are wearing them as well. He understands, he is old enough to do so."

Philip's mouth turned into a thin line as he accepted the cloth, tying it across his nose and mouth. It would prevent him breathing the contaminated air. And the gloves would protect his hands. Before he was to enter, Marianne could not help but laugh a little.

"Alas, you do look a bit like a ruffian," she cooed, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Philip merely scoffed, his handsome face still not entirely hidden behind the cloth. The physician grew embarrassed as he witnessed the display of affection between the king and queen.

Some maids were washing his son while others were airing the room when he entered. A delicate vase of freshly picked flowers was placed on the table next to the bed.

Once the maids understood it was the king, they all quickly left, leaving the father alone with his son.

"I did not know bandits were now allowed into the castle," Edmund's weak voice said as he caught sight of his father. Philip chuckled as he sat down next to the young prince.

"I snuck in, Your Highness," he played along, deepening his voice and accenting it.

"And why would a bandit wish to see a sickly prince?"

"I did not come here to see a sickly prince. I came to see the prince who defeated death," Philip boomed. The ten-year-old stared back at him, astonished.

"Is that what the people are saying about me?" he asked as his eyes lit up with wonder. Philip merely nodded. Suddenly Edmund grew shy, looking at his father from under his eyelashes. "Is it true what the maids say? That you stayed up praying for me at the chapel the whole night?"

Edmund's words caught his father off guard. "There are some things in life that no amount of power or money can get you," he began explaining. "So then there is only one way we can all look to and ask for help."

"It seems He listened," Edmund smiled, but exhaustion was still evident on his face.

"Indeed," Philip smiled under the cloth. He brushed the boy's hair out of his face and tucked him in. "What you need to do now is to rest, so you can ride your stallion once more, my son."

"I want to be like you one day, father," Edmund began, sleepily.

"And you will, only if you rest now."

As Edmund shut his eyes, Philip gave out a sigh of relief, never letting go of the small hand.

* * *

 _March 2_ _nd_ _, 1520_

The last of supper was taken away by some sailors. Juan patted his belly in a satisfied manner, relaxing back in the high chair, sipping on his cup of Rioja. The Spanish captain had invited the three Angloans to come dine with him. Journeys at sea were always dreary and awfully boring, and the man always found company—in any form—to be better than dining by himself, or with his steering mate.

"What takes you to Rome, señores?" the captain asked as he passed around the wine bottle so that they might serve themselves. His eyes drifted to the masked one, a man he found deliciously alluring. If there was something Juan Mejías loved it was a good mystery. The two men exchanged glances over their cups of wine.

"Business," Carlisle said in his baritone voice that boomed in the captain's cabin. The curt response only provoked a laugh in Juan.

"If you are businessmen, then I am the king of Spain!" he exclaimed laughing, raising his glass at the mention of his king, drinking to his honor. "I am guessing you are on your way to Rome for some other type of business, say business of honor perhaps?" he continued. The words seemed to provoke some reaction in them both, the masked man seemed as stoic as ever.

"Or perhaps it is a woman," he said, trying to dig deeper. Now the masked man seemed to tense up. "Ah, it seems I am on the right track," Juan mused, delighted at what he had discovered. "It _is_ about a woman."

"I would appreciate, _Señor… Capitán_ , if you did not meddle in our affairs," came the stern reply from Edward as he leaned forward in his chair. Juan only arched one eyebrow before he put both hands up as a gesture of submission.

"I did not wish to offend you, señor," Juan began.

"Then do not speak more of it," Edward said, cutting him short, hoping the conversation was over with.

"Ah yes," Juan could not stop himself. "But I always feel that women bring nothing but trouble," he started, pausing as if thoughtful. Both Carlisle and Jacob grew nervous, sensing that Edward was becoming tenser by the minute.

Juan unbuttoned the upper part of his shirt and exposed part of his collarbone. A deep scar ran a few inches wide, diagonally across his left collarbone.

"Her name was Lola," he sighed—as if remembering the woman who had inflicted that scar on him. He then rolled up the sleeve of his white shirt. A silver scar ran across his lower arm, not as deep but quite a lot longer than the first one.

"This one I got from Valentina," he lamented.

"It seems you choose the most passionate of them, or maybe that is just the way you do things here around the Mediterranean," Jacob muttered—more to himself than to Juan. His words provoked a chuckle in the Spanish captain.

"Valentina did this to me when she found out about Lola, I thought she would chop my arm off!" he exclaimed. "Lola wielded my own blade against me when she found out about Rosario."

"Rosario?" Jacob asked in blissful innocence.

"Hm yes, for then there was Ángela and Catalina. So many women, all of them have brought me many troubles over the years. Yet, I cannot seem to quit them," he said, staring at Edward.

"It seems you have suffered for your woman as well, yes?" Juan asked, pointing at the mask.

"She did not scar me, if that is what you ask," Edward growled, his hands in fists.

"Of course, señor. But you must understand my curiosity. I do not get to see many men in masks unless they are bandits, and you do not strike me as a bandit." Juan took another sip from his cup, enjoying himself in teasing the three Angloans. But he knew he must tread carefully with the masked one.

"Might it be that you have so many troubles with women because you cannot settle for one?" Carlisle put in, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

"Probably. But I find that once I have decided for one, another just pops into my life, whatever I do. It is a curse, really," Juan said, flashing a charming smile. The ladies loved that smile more than they loved his sweet words and gentle caress. When he saw that he could not take the conversation any further, he decided to play along with Carlisle and change the subject as well.

"I heard some disturbing news in the harbor at Málaga before we sailed," his brows knitted together. "Something about a coup in Angloa against the royal palace and the king himself."

"The facts are true," Jacob stated. "But the traitors were dealt with accordingly," he said. Juan eyed the trio a long while.

"Of course. Then again, some other traitors might have made it on to the first ship they could get, a ship that so happened to sail into Málaga. Maybe they are sitting here, in front of me, sharing my wine, my food and my hospitality." All lightheartedness was gone as Juan brought up what had been going through his mind for the last few days. He did not wish to house traitors on his ship. He was proud, like most Spaniards, and he would be damned if he had such dishonorable men in such proximity.

The tension in the room grew. His own steering mate, Rodrigo, could sense it as well, even if he did not speak a word of English. The masked man stared harshly at Juan through the slits of his mask.

"I assure you that we are not traitors," Edward said, containing the anger he felt at the offense. But he would not explain himself, pride ruled before common sense. Instead, it was Carlisle—ever the voice of reason—that jumped in before things got out of hand.

"We defended the royal palace when it was besieged by the traitors, led by Lord Oscar Braun—who unfortunately escaped, taking my friend's fiancée in the process," he spat. Carlisle didn't like that he had to explain himself. Even so, it was preferable to spending the rest of the voyage locked below deck until the captain decided what to do with them. Juan's expression did not change, he was not moved by the words.

After a long pause—where the tension was unbearable, the Spaniard finally spoke, "Men will tell the most impressive lies to get away from what's coming for them." Jacob grew pale, if the Spanish captain did not believe them they could well risk being thrown overboard.

" _Juro por la Virgen que yo y mis hombres decimos la verdad. Os doy mi palabra de honor, por si eso os sirve de algo_ ," Juan rose an eyebrow, for the words weighed heavy on him.

"What did he say?" Jacob whispered in Carlisle' ear as he inched closer. Carlisle promptly hushed him, trying to read the expression on Juan's face. After a while, his harsh demeanor withered away.

"If you are willing to swear on the Holy Mother, I must take your word for it—as well as your word of honor," he said with a curt nod before the tension was completely gone. The rest of the evening seemed to pass by in a slow manner. The captain engaged Edward in deep conversation, speaking in rapid Spanish while Jacob and Carlisle got lost in trying to decipher the foreign language.

When the evening was coming to a close, for most of the wine had been drunk, Edward, Carlisle, and Jacob decided to leave for their quarters. On the way there, the masked man was bombarded by questions.

"What magic did you unleash upon that Spaniard that he would believe you with a mere phrase?" Jacob asked in awe. He only received a slight smirk from Edward as they walked through the small corridor, their door at the end of it.

"He does believe in us, right? He knows we tell the truth and will not try to lock us up?" Carlisle asked, still not entirely willing to trust that the matter could have been brushed away that easily.

"He assures me so, Carlisle. But I would advise caution in either case. We arrive in Rome soon. We should try to get away from Captain Juan as fast as we dock, in case he reports us to the local authorities," Edward explained.

"You think he would do that?"

"He promised me we would be safe on this ship, but I think him a fickle man; he did not promise our safety off the ship."

They entered their shared living space. Edward had a bed in the corner with drapes, so that he could discard the mask when he slept—he trusted enough in his friends to do so now. When the door closed Jacob turned to him. "But what did you say to him, that first sentence in Spanish?"

"I am also curious, to be quite honest. From what Juan repeated it was something to do with swearing on someone?" Carlisle said, curiosity shining in his eyes.

"I swore to him on the Holy Mother that we were telling the truth and after I gave him my word of honor—if he found that of any use. The Spanish are devout Catholics, he could not refuse," Edward said, sinking down on the bed, not bothering to undress. He propped his head on the pillow, sure more questions would follow.

"I suppose you had a right, for we did tell the truth," Carlisle continued, promptly cut short by Jacob.

"I had no idea you spoke Spanish so well!" the younger man exclaimed. "Where did you learn that?"

His question brought up the memory of Sofia once more. Edward stared at the roof, remembering her gray hair, her black eyes and her sweet accent, running like honey. He missed her, now more than ever. He scolded himself; when they had been in each other's company he had taken her for granted. But now… now he had no idea where she was and a part of him felt lost without her guidance.

"I spent most of my youth in the company of a Spanish gypsy; Sofia. I don't think you ever met her. She was like a mother to me," he said distantly. Both men turned quiet, Edward rarely talked about his personal life nor his past.

"But she was not your mother?" Jacob asked, digging where he should not. Carlisle sent him an irritated glance.

"No, my mother is… not here," he sighed, occupied, no doubt, by memories of the woman who had given birth to him.

The other two did not push more on the subject and decided to leave it at that. They put out the candles and Edward, feeling safe and protected by the dark, shed his mask. His thoughts wandered to another woman in his life; a woman with tresses of rich auburn and expressive chocolate eyes. He knew he would see her again, hold her again, and kiss her again. They could not arrive in Rome soon enough. He would seek up Cardinal Thorpe and take whatever means necessary against the man—anything so that he might find _her_.

 _March 5_ _th_ _, 1520_

She was above deck for the first time.

Isabella had never sailed on the Mediterranean. She had always thought it the same as the Western Sea that stretched between Angloa and the continent.

But she had been wrong.

When she had traveled from Wessport, Isabella and her mother had taken a ship down to Coldwick. The sea had been stormy, a black depth under gray skies that threatened to swallow the ship whole. She had kept away from it, trying to ignore the waves that rocked the ship violently, threatening to tip it.

But now, leaving Spain behind them, closing in on the east, she saw another world. The smell of salt and fresh seawater wafted through the air as frisky waves danced around the ship. The wind kissed her face gently, while the sun touched her pale skin, turning it a shade darker. She saw the men run around the main deck, working fervently to manage the vast white sails, looking like strange clouds contrasted against the blue heaven. To her left, far in the distance, Isabella spotted a very thin strip of land.

"That is North Africa," came a slow drawl behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up in the presence of Braun as he neared, standing just behind her. She fought against the revolting reaction he provoked in her.

"I have never been there," she said in a stiff voice.

"It is indeed an impressive land, so very different to our own," he continued, awe lacing his voice. "Their customs, their way of life—there is a finesse in their culture, a grace that we have ignored for centuries in our land. And to the east, their accomplishments only grow. We are mere specks of dust compared to them. We have been wasting away in an age of ignorance and lack of culture," he sneered.

Isabella was surprised at the words. She turned to face him. "You speak of Angloa?"

Her questioning glance and innocent expression brought a sly smile on Braun's face. "I speak of Europe in general, my dear," he responded. But the words made her frown.

"I do not think we are an ignorant people, nor that we lack grace of culture," she argued, offended at the way he so easily dismissed his own people.

"Do not speak of what you do not know, Miss Swan," Braun snapped, his eyes growing darker, a snarl spreading on his wicked mouth. Isabella took a step back at the sudden change in him. Her eyes turned dark and her lips formed a thin line as their polite exchange had turned sour. Not that she had ever wished for polite conversation with him. Isabella loathed Braun with all her heart. Braun recollected himself. He did, however, not apologize for his sudden outburst.

She tried to ignore him, feeling trapped suddenly, on that vast deck. The men kept sending glances her way; most knowing better than to try anything with her. The barber who had taken out the splinters drifted his gaze nervously from her to Braun and back. He did not like how the lord looked at the young woman.

"We shall arrive in a fortnight if the winds are in our favor," Braun said casually.

"And where might that be?" She had tried to discern where Braun might be taking her, but the only clue she had was Cardinal Thorpe.

"It matters little," Braun smiled. He stared as strands of her hair blew across her face, her lips parted as she awaited the rest of his answer. But it never came.

"It matters to me. I heard you speak of Cardinal Thorpe—"

"Cardinal Thorpe," Braun chuckled as if remembering something before turning serious. "Once we arrive there, you will know where we are. "Commodities will have been prepared for you," he started, hoping to continue their conversation. But all he got was a glare as she pushed past him finally, making her way down to her quarters, praying he was not following her suit.

Isabella arrived at her chamber, swiftly locking the door behind her, resting a brief moment against the worn wood. When she heard no footsteps, she went to the bed and searched under the mattress until she found the dagger Zoráida had gifted her. Holding it in her hands gave her comfort when nothing else would; it was safety—a weapon to defend her. Edward was gone, hard as it was to accept it was a fact. Every night when she shut her eyes she was reminded of that. It hurt, but what had once been a sharp pain in her heart was now dull, aching. She reasoned to herself that she would always keep the memory of her fiancé alive. When she returned to Angloa—for she would indeed return—Isabella would make sure that he was honored accordingly.

But she had to get to Angloa. As soon as they docked in whatever harbor Braun was taking her, she would run. The day he had stormed into the townhouse, she had heard whispers of Cardinal Thorpe. Isabella never knew they were both allied, or perhaps they were not; perhaps Braun would run to wherever Thorpe was and push him for finances—it seemed like something Braun would do. Her mind had pondered this question for days. She had no recollection of where the Cardinal could be. But she suspected that there was only one place for him to visit if he had left Angloa: the Vatican.

Isabella had managed to whisk a few coins from Braun's coat, which he would sometimes forget whenever he visited her. It would be enough to buy her safe passage across the Mediterranean back to Spain. She knew she would be safer on the Iberian Peninsula; where her father's relatives lived. They would no doubt help her the rest of the way back to Angloa; her motherland.

She found herself once more glancing out of the large windows, staring at an empty horizon where the sea met the sky. It was west—where the sun would set every afternoon, always shining in through the windows, bathing her chamber in a myriad of colors.

 _March 6_ _th_ _, 1520_

The clash of swords sounded on deck as the blades crossed once more. Edward easily parried an attack from Juan as he sent him back. He was playing with the Spaniard, enjoying the control he held over their swordfight.

Carlisle and Jacob watched intently, following every move of their friend.

"How does he move so swiftly?" Carlisle asked himself.

"Indeed, I would stumble and fall myself attempting the moves he does," Jacob joined in. "But he fights well today, against this Spaniard. I guess it is because he fights with a dress sword. When he fought Braun, he fought with an unfamiliar weapon; that is probably why he was defeated." They could still detect that he had pain in his shoulder. But Edward tried to bite through it, only focused on the fight. Edward needed a distraction, he needed to improve his skills for the eventual rematch with Braun.

Carlisle turned his head sharply and stared at Jacob in disbelief. "Braun defeated Cullen?"

"Aye, why do you think he was so badly wounded? It was Braun who cut through him. I thought it was because he was tired from fighting Lord Alistair, but I wonder," Jacob continued.

"I have sparred with him myself. He lets me win every time because his mind wanders too much," Carlisle said, a slight offense creeping into his tone. It provoked a small chuckle in Jacob.

"Maybe that is what happened with Braun; the bastard probably used his words as much as his sword." Jacob looked pensive, trying to unravel the mystery of Edward's defeat.

"Or perhaps Braun is his superior in swordsmanship," Carlisle said, although the mere thought did not sit well with him. He found more reasons against such a thought when Edward once more managed to coax the rapier from Juan's hand. The Spaniard laughed it off, but it was clear that he had had enough of such an exercise.

"Braun will not fight as dirty as Alistair. However, I am sure he had something up his sleeve when he fought Edward," Jacob murmured as their masked friend shook hands with the captain.

"What do you mean?" Carlisle asked, lowering his voice so that the others wouldn't hear.

"I cannot help but speculate. One of my father's friends—Lord Robert Giraine's cousin had apparently offended Lord Braun. This was almost a decade back, but Lord Robert loves to bring up this story every so often. I always thought him exaggerating; maybe I was wrong," Jacob said in a steady voice as the memories resurfaced.

"His cousin—whose name escapes me—was an excellent swordsman, well enough to be Braun's match. He chose combat by sword, of course. Lord Robert was the second, so he witnessed the whole ordeal. They fought for a long while. Lord Braun managed to slice the cousin first, drawing blood. But Lord Robert's cousin would not stop until he had sliced Lord Braun as well. It appears that he started getting more sluggish and tired at the end of their fight; it had gone on for a long time though, so it was natural. In the end, they stopped as—ah yes, _Fausto_!—that was his name! Fausto was said to have been very tired indeed. The wound he received on his arm got infected and he died from it a week or so later. Everyone else brushed it away as a tragic occurrence, everyone but Lord Robert, who suspected Braun was behind it. Perhaps he was only exaggerating in the end, though," Jacob finished.

"Perhaps we idealize our friend too much to the point where Edward being defeated in combat becomes unthinkable. Maybe it was just that Braun was the better man," Carlisle said in an emotional voice.

"Lord Braun was never questioned, for how could he have been capable of infecting such a wound, unless it was by witchcraft?" Jacob reasoned.

"Maybe Fausto was poisoned," Carlisle said jokingly. "It would indeed be a strange poison to use, but practical would it not? Imagine a poison that would show up as a normal infection in a wound that you inflicted with your coated weapon. No suspicion would fall on you since death from infection and inflammation is a natural occurrence," Carlisle speculated, playing with the idea. But it was never more than mindless speculation. Jacob, however, was keener on accepting such an idea.

"And why would Braun not have done such a thing? A man like him, without honor, could indeed use poison for his own benefit. He had everything to lose the day he stormed the palace." But when he saw the look on Carlisle' face, Jacob realized his own folly. "Or maybe we are indeed over-analyzing this. Maybe Edward was just tired and Braun the better man?" Jacob questioned. Carlisle gave away a deep sigh.

"My wish is that we were onto something, but perhaps it is simpler than we imagined it." He patted Jacob on the shoulder. "Let us not dwell on such things now, Jacob. The time will come later, of that I am sure," he said. A tone of premonition laced his voice as worry seeped into his face, manifesting in the deepened wrinkles on the otherwise handsome visage.

"Perhaps," Jacob joined in, choosing to ignore what they had been speaking of.

"We dock in a few days," came a sudden voice behind them. The hairs in the back of their necks prickled up as Carlisle and Jacob quickly exchanged glances. Edward's dark voice boomed behind them and they wondered how he had managed to sneak up behind them on a ship that was all creaking floorboards.

"That is good, I cannot wait to get off this blasted thing," Carlisle said, turning around.

"Yes," Jacob joined in, giving away a stale laugh, still caught off guard.

They both felt the penetrating eyes of their friend on them, those green depths seemed to tear into them as the gentle Mediterranean breeze swished past.

"We should start preparing for Rome. I do not trust too much in Captain Mejías," the masked one continued. His words provoked frowns in his friends as they did not understand what he was talking about.

"You still suspect he will have us arrested as soon as we dock by Rome?"

"We will not even have made it out of the harbor before we are thrown into prison," Edward confirmed.

"How can you be sure?" asked Jacob. He received yet another stare from the masked man.

"Because it is what I would do if I suspected someone until I could find the proof they spoke of," he said coldly. The words made sense to them both.

"Oh," said Jacob, seeing how his friend was always one step ahead.

"Oh indeed. You see, Jacob, I have time to give these things thought, instead of pondering about battles and duels already fought," he said, the hint of a smile touching his lips. "Or making up biased speculations about swords and poison," he added. The words turned both Jacob ad Carlisle white as they realized that Edward had heard their whole exchange.

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter for this week. Thanks for those who've reviewed. I think you might have already noticed that I'm including scenes from the past in the beginning. It might have confused some of you, but don't worry, it ties into the story eventually. I'm so excited for you to read what is in store for the coming chapters! As some kind reviewers have pointed out via PM, I get some repeated paragraphs now and then. My Microsoft Word has been acting up on me for the past year and when it saves, this happens. I reread the chapters but some always seem to escape me. So if you see it, please let me know! I appreciate all of you who read this.**

 **Enjoy!**


	5. Chapter 5

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 5_

 _May 29th, 1461 – Cadherra_

Philip heard the bells of the chapel ring through the whole meadow as the procession started. Their hollow sound stretched over the grasslands, creeping up the Durun Mountains and traveling into the heart of Raven's Grove.

Cadherra was in mourning.

Angloa was in mourning.

A knot that had formed in his heart would not loosen up. The middle-aged king felt the sorrow drown him. His young wife—the Queen—would not remove the black veil, so that the others could not see the tears that streamed down her face.

He watched from the window as the long train of men dressed in black carried the coffin that held his son, the heir to the throne. Edmund was dead—had died from the plague that had conquered the island. Death itself had raided through all of the villages of the country, finally sweeping Cadherra, taking the young prince with it.

He squared his jaw while watching from the tower in Adelton Hall, cursing that he himself could not attend the public funeral. A king must never be seen at a funeral-unless it is his own.

Magnus was at the head of the train, he himself had lost his own two-year-old daughter to the sickness a few days earlier. He had taken her body and buried her in the crypt of Adelton. The prince had been unable to express his grief. He was left with a void inside of him that would never again be filled.

Philip was brought back to reality by the soft cries of Marianne. He embraced his wife and fell into the spiraling sorrow with her.

When the funeral was over and night fell, they finally made their way down to the chapel to gaze upon the body. The place was empty and cold as if winter was upon them. Or perhaps it was just he that felt the chill of death having passed by.

He saw the handsome face of his young son—it would never mature beyond ten now. The sleeping visage rested, looking white as a ghost. His lips had turned purple and his body was so still. Marianne let her tears fall as she went over to the body.

"My son, my dear, sweet boy," she cried, embracing the corpse of the young prince as her tears streamed from her tired eyes. Philip had tried to hold in his own tears, but he finally felt them emerge, flowing freely as the loss of his child hit him.

He had not been able to contain his anger at the injustice of the situation. How could his son have survived only to fall ill again and then be taken from them? How could God play such a cruel trick on both parents?

The king could not entirely process the loss. He only felt pain and sorrow then, not understanding how his child could be dead.

That same night, in the confinements of his chamber, Philip started thinking about the future. He realized that he had no one to inherit the throne. No prince was there to take his place when he died—except for Magnus.

Alas, the more he pondered such worrying thoughts, the more he spiraled down into his own sorrow. When the pain overwhelmed him he toured the structure once more and took in its grandeur. The castle was nothing like Angloa had ever seen before. It emerged from the ground like a mighty tree on a small hill. The stones stacked on top of each other and reached for the blue skies.

He stared out over the open emerald field, the tall grass swaying gently in the wind. In the distance, the mountains stood—Raven's Grove gently enveloping them at their feet. Delicate clouds puffed from the chimneys in Hayes.

Philip then realized that he could not bear the sight of Cadherra. Every corner reminded him of Edmund to the point where it drowned him in a sea of hurt.

He had to get away.

 _June 1st, 1462 – Cadherra_

It had been more than a year since Philip and Magnus had lost their children to the plague. After having taken the prince and princess, it had quickly died down and the country recovered from its aftereffects. Many families had suffered from it. Many had to fight to survive after husbands, fathers, wives or mothers had passed. Some children had no living parents to tend them, and they were left to fend for themselves.

Alas, the crown had been generous, helping as much as it could. It had made the survivors prosper, and the country was at its strongest point yet.

Philip was out riding with his brother. His usual charming and smiling self never quite seemed to return. The monarch seemed mellower, less inclined to brash action. The wound that his son's death had provoked had not yet healed. And he only knew of one way to remedy that.

"I wish to move court," Philip confided in his brother as their stallions silently grazed the pastures deep within Raven's Grove.

"What?" Magnus could not believe what he was hearing. Adam Flannigan had tried to make the king move court for years, and now Philip seemed determined by his own merit to do so.

"Wherever I look I can only see traces of Edmund. He breathed life into this paradise. And now he is gone. Every time I am in this forest my healing wounds are reopened and it hurts."

"But you cannot, brother! If you move court many of us will lose from it. Not only will we lose power and money, but also—"

"Is that all you think of, Magnus? Of power and money? Has your wife poisoned your mind so much that you no longer have any compassion? What of your own child! The one you lost after she had barely breathed or felt the warmth of the sun on her skin," Philip growled, stopping his black horse. Magnus quickly ceased talking, cursing his brash mouth.

"You are weaker than I gave you credit for, brother. I never thought you would cling to power in such a way," Philip snapped. "I cannot believe we are related!"

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I only meant to say that moving court may be unwise."

"Listen to me," Philip sighed. "There are more reasons to move court. It is not just due to my own pain. We are cut off from the rest of the world here. At least it feels that way sometimes. We turn a deaf ear to the beauty in front of us and never look away. I want to be in a place where I can devote all my time and power to make a change. I want Angloa to prosper," he explained. "I do not wish to be remembered as yet another king who kept himself and court in this castle, turning a deaf ear to the problems this country faced, a deaf ear to his people in their hour of need," Philip continued. Magnus could not help but frown as it was clear that his older brother spoke of their father.

"We might have been more successful in combating the plague if we had been more strategically placed. We did not hear news of it until it reached Sorossa, and by then it had spread to half of the country."

"Where do you plan to move then?" Magnus felt reluctant as he asked that question. His wife would not like the news. They would lose the presence and hold they now had at court. He had turned to power and money after the loss of his daughter—Magnus had tried to fill the emptiness within his heart.

"Wessport."

"That old fishing village up north?"

"It will be much more than a fishing village once I am done with it," Philip said, urging his horse into a canter. He was done discussing such things with his brother. It was obvious the latter did not favor his plans.

* * *

 _March 11th, 1520 – Civitavecchia, Italy_

They saw the coast nearing, and a port clinging to the waterline where many ships docked. Fortresses shielded the harbor, probably put there to protect it from Saracen invaders from the east or south. Carlisle and Jacob were reminded of Málaga, in some sense—with the vast stone structures and busy people crowding the open street that faced the Tyrrhenian Sea.

"So this is Rome," they said in unison. For some reason, both men had expected something grander—vast structures or ruins, telling of a forgotten past. A whisper fleeting through time as the olden days reminded them of what had once been. Instead, they looked at the seaport and found it, in some sense, lacking.

"This is not Rome, not precisely," Edward said, a hint of worry laced his voice. "This is Civitavecchia, a port town northwest of Rome."

"And what are we doing here then?" asked Jacob. He did not get an answer, but instead saw the masked man tense up. Edward's shoulder had healed considerably after Zoráida's care. The dark doublet he wore no longer looked as bulky over his left shoulder since he wore thinner strips of bandages now. The one shirt he owned still had the faded red stains from his wound, where the blood had escaped the bandages. His gloved hands were clenched into fists, one gripping the hilt of his sword, a habit he had whenever he grew tense. Carlisle and Jacob had grown accustomed to reading his body language, since they could never perceive his state of being from reading his face.

"I am afraid that if we do not do something fast, we will have to figure that out in a cell or a dungeon somewhere," he answered, glancing back at Juan through the slits in his mask. The captain had avoided them the whole morning as they got closer to the Italian port. He was practically telling the trio that he planned to have them apprehended as soon as they docked.

"Tonight there will be no moon. We can steal a small boat ourselves and make for the coast, away from the city. If we keep to the coastline we will drift with the current and arrive close to the old Roman port, Ostia," Edward said. His friends did not have to think twice, they liked the plan.

"But how can you be sure that he will not have people guarding the main deck?" Jacob had seen several sailors stand guard whenever he had escaped up from their cabin for a fresh breath of air while the others slept.

"We will knock them out. Before the alarm is sounded we will be away," Carlisle said. Edward nodded in agreement and so the three started formulating the details of their escape.

When night came, not a soul seemed to stir on the ship. The trio, having packed what little belongings they brought, quietly moved their way from below deck. Edward, who sported the darkest clothes—practically like another shadow on that moonless night, prowled the deck. He found two guards and swiftly took each one out with a small blow to the head. Once they were down he sprinkled wine on them. If anyone found the sailors, they would think them passed out drunk. It would not raise suspicion until they were far away. When a third man had been dealt with, Jacob and Carlisle started preparing the small rowboat while Edward kept watch.

While they were sneaking around in the darkness, all three could feel their heartbeats speed up at the thought of getting found out. Edward had been in similar situations before and felt more at ease. Jacob had managed to prepare a small provisional bag of food and water, in case their journey south took longer than expected.

All seemed to be going well until Edward caught sight of a moving shadow in one corner of the deck. One glimmer of steel reflecting in the light of the coastal town was all he needed to draw his own weapon. Carlisle and Jacob were caught off guard as they heard the clash of blades.

"Lower the boat!" Carlisle hissed in Jacob's direction as he turned to help Edward.

"But what about Edward?" Jacob asked. When no answer was given he decided to chance it. He jumped into the small boat, barely capable of fitting the three of them. He saw four or five figures engaged in battle—black shadows barely outlined against the contrasting sky. He had no idea who had the upper hand, but, soon, recognition shone in his eyes as he discerned one fighter with a peculiar fighting style he had seen once before. It was Edward, taking down two other men easily with one hand. It was all Jacob needed to let go of the rope that held him and the boat floating mid-air. A rush flew through his stomach as he fell several feet before hitting the black sea with a big splash.

As soon as he touched water, a figure threw itself clumsily over the edge, diving into the murky depths. When a blonde head popped up, Jacob let out the breath he had been holding, knowing it was Carlisle.

"Where is Edward?" he asked worriedly, glancing up at the ship. The splash of their boat had most assuredly awoken the rest of the crew by now. He could hear the shouts as people rushed to investigate what the commotion was all about.

"He told us to start rowing, to get the boat away from the ship," Carlisle urged as he crawled into the rowboat, soaked to the bone. The adrenaline rush from having jumped protected him still from the night chill. But Carlisle could feel his limbs going cold with each second. They had to get as far as they could. He trusted in Edward's abilities to catch up with them.

They heard some more clashes of steel and shouts of pain. Suddenly, a black silhouette was outlined against the rest of the ship. It sprang toward the edge and dove gracefully into the water. They kept rowing away from the scene, hoping Edward would find them. Seconds seemed to turn into agonizing hours as no head popped up. But, then, it emerged; a black head broke the surface and two glistening eyes found them. With long, sure strokes, Edward reached them and hauled himself over the side of the rowboat.

Without a word he turned around in his seat as Carlisle and Jacob rowed. A satisfied smile spread across his lips as the crewmembers were still blindly fighting each other, confused by the whole situation.

Their escape was swift, and before Juan Mejías or anyone else on his ship discovered what had really happened, the trio was already far away.

 _March 18th, 1520_

Isabella stared at her food and could not muster enough will to eat. Not when Braun was sitting right next to her.

She could feel him brush up against her. If it was by accident or not, she would never know. But such nearness made her nauseous. Her fiancé's killer was sitting next to her. Isabella gripped the knife tightly in her hand, fighting the urge to sink it into his flesh and puncture his heart.

They had arrived at their destination, wherever that might be. But Braun had not allowed them to dock yet, nor had he allowed her to walk on deck.

Even if Isabella could not see the town they were next to, she could hear it sometimes. When the song of the seagulls died down, she heard the chatter of people, the shouts of sailors as they prepared for docking. It soon became a background noise, making her aware that she was not alone in the world. The young woman sensed they were somewhere else as well—it was warmer here. The breeze against the ship was gentle and did not provoke chills in her as it would in Angloa.

That afternoon, a man dressed in strange clothes had boarded their ship. Braun had been all smiles and politeness toward him as he showed him down to the dining area. He had made Isabella dress in the finest dress he could find for her; a maroon gown that was at least a few decades old. The arms tapered out like an upside down triangle and it hugged her upper midsection too much, making her bosom more prominent. Isabella gritted her teeth as both men spoke in a strange language while looking at her.

The strange man had a graying beard and dark eyes. His skin was a shade darker than hers and Braun's. He wore loose cashmere pants in blue and faded yellow. They were high and tied up with a broad sash of off-white. His shirt bore a damask dark magnolia and a white pattern. His shoes were a dark red with a pointed toe, curled up. Over this ensemble, the man wore a tunic, open at the front, reaching his ankles. The luscious green silk pooled around him like waves of water as he sat on the chair. What really ignited Isabella's attention, however, was the peculiar headgear he wore on top and around his head. It appeared to be some type of white fabric—perhaps muslin—placed around his head like a great big turban. Then man felt her stare at him and a small chuckle escaped him.

"It seems this young girl is a curious one," he stated in English. Isabella was caught off guard as he spoke in her language. Braun laughed with him as well.

"That she is, Chaush-bashi," Braun said in a respectful tone. The man seemed to appreciate the title Braun bestowed upon him. Isabella could only stare at them, confused. But she was not offered any explanation as to what was going on. Braun sneaked a glance toward the young woman once more before he continued speaking.

"I take it you are pleased then?" he asked. The man merely nodded, a sly smile spreading on his lips.

"I will send an envoy tonight to give you details on your accommodation. At the end of this week all should be in order," he stated. Isabella could not fight the feeling that they were somehow speaking of her.

"Has this anything to do with me?" she asked. Her voice never wavered, it sounded strong and determined. She managed to mask the uncertainty and growing fear she felt in the pit of her stomach. Braun took her arm in his hand and squeezed hard before leaning into her hear.

"Silence! You will only speak when spoken to from now on," he whispered. She clenched her jaw and sent him a murderous look. The strange man said something in his language and laughed. Braun swiftly laughed with him.

When dinner was over, she stared once more at her metal plate, her food untouched. The man left soon, after having drunk too many glasses of wine. He got out of the dining room of the ship with some help and Braun stared after him, a satisfied grin spreading on his face.

"Who was he?" Isabella asked flatly. She received another stare from Braun.

"What did I tell you about speaking—," he started, only to be cut off by her.

"That I shall not speak unless spoken to. But that has never applied to you, Lord Braun. I am neither your servant nor your slave," she said in harsh tones. Her response managed to silence the proud man before her, who would not dare talk against her, or move a hand against her. Not yet.

"Who was he?" she asked again, more forcefully this time.

"A friend from long ago," Braun said, reminiscing in the past.

"That does not answer my question," she remarked dryly. Braun stared at her and took in the sight of her. Isabella stared back, defiantly, not willing to squirm under his gaze—disgusting as it was. She had found new strength and determination in the knife gifted to her by Zoráida. Isabella had grown more courageous as of late—more daring in her address. It was something Braun did not approve of.

"You will know in due time," Braun said enigmatically. And with that he went over to her, offering his arm to her as she stood up from the chair. Isabella ignored it and instead took a handkerchief and wrapped a piece of meat in it.

"You escort will not be necessary, Lord Braun. I can walk to my chambers myself," she muttered. He watched half in amusement, half insulted as she took the piece of food, obviously intending to dine in her own quarters once more.

"Then do not blame me if you're assaulted in the corridors," he spat as she left. Isabella turned around in the opened door. The look she sent him was of condescension and hatred.

"I would be safer in the company of wolves," she spat back, slamming the door hard behind her, rushing to her chamber. All the way there she gripped Zoraida's knife, safely tucked under her dress, tied to her thigh.

"Be careful what you wish for," Braun whispered after her.

 _March 12th, 1520 – Coast of Italy_

Carlisle and Jacob had been rowing south for a long while, staring at the coast while Edward kept lookout toward the north. They did not know if they had been followed.

As dawn had arrived, bringing with it ominous clouds, the three men did not foresee a bright future. Soon, big drops started falling from the skies as the clouds opened up, letting the rain fall in a heavy downpour. They were all cold, tired and soaked to the bone. But they kept going forward, knowing that soon they would find Braun—and thus—Isabella. It was the only thing that kept Edward focused. He harbored no other thoughts than the memory of her.

He had found, during this trip, that the longer he was apart from her, the more he understood how important she was for him. At first, he had thought their relationship was only that of mutual understanding. He thought that the fire he had for her was only carnal lust; which he thought confirmed when they had kissed. But Edward was sure that if he went to lay with another woman, he would not feel complete. It had to be Isabella, always Isabella. He realized—with a growing fear and anticipation—that the more time he spent away from her, the more his care grew for her. Edward had started to see, just as those around him, that the care he held for her was something more—much more. He had never had such feelings before, and it scared him.

"When do you reckon we will reach this ancient harbor?" shouted Carlisle through the rain. The sea was calm—to their relief—and the waves were moderate. Had the waves been any higher the boat would have long since tipped over.

"I think we should be there by evening," Edward shouted back. The current had grown faster and the winds had picked up speed—all in their favor. He glanced over at Jacob, who looked about ready to fall asleep.

"Why don't you let me take a turn, Jacob?" Edward asked. Concern laced his voice.

"No, you should not overexert your shoulder," said he. Edward's shoulder did ache after the continuous practicing and last night's swordfight. But he'd rather take the pain in his shoulder than see Jacob fighting sleep.

"Move over. I want you alert once we arrive. You will be no good fighting if you can barely keep your head up," he said in a commanding voice. Jacob wanted to argue, but the look in Edward's eyes and the tone of his voice made him immediately get out of his seat and switch with the masked one.

Once Edward started working the oar, Carlisle looked at him with a sly smile on his lips. "What about me?"

Edward sent him a glare. It was obvious Carlisle was not as tired as Jacob, that he could endure more for he was used to such hardships since the war. Jacob had fought with them as well, but he did not know the harsh life of a soldier like they did. He was the son of a great lord, while Edward had—at first—been a lowly soldier raised from the ranks. Carlisle was the son of a lowly baron and had risen fast in the ranks as well.

"Keep rowing, Carlisle," he snickered. The other could not hide the chuckle that escaped him. And so they continued rowing, setting into a practiced rhythm. Soon, Carlisle started humming a song the soldiers used to sing when they marched. Jacob knew it as well and he promptly joined in. Before long, they sang as loud as their tired voices would allow them, almost as if shouting at the rain—defying the elements with their positive attitude. Edward did not join in, instead he focused on rowing, trying to use it as meditation to ignore everything else. After a while, Jacob's voice died down, just as the rain did. He promptly fell asleep under a coarse blanket that Edward had placed on him.

When the afternoon fell, the temperature rose. The sky cleared and they could once more see the coastline without difficulty. In the distance, Edward saw tall structures—ruins—rise from the ground. He recognized them, for he had seen them before.

"There!" he pointed. Jacob stirred from his sleep and Carlisle turned around in his seat, looking into the distance. He saw some crumbling marble pillars in bad condition. There were remnants of what had once been a harbor. Its use had ceased around six to seven centuries earlier, due to the constant attack from Saracens arriving from both the east and the south.

As they got closer, the three men observed their surroundings, taking in the silence of the abandoned harbor. A river split through it, leading them all the way up to Rome. Crumbling pillars and other structures stood, now only a whisper of what they had been. Carlisle could picture how the place had once looked and he concluded that it must have been an impressive sight to see.

"We will row up the river and stop shortly outside of the city gates. We will not walk in through the main gates; they will most likely stop us there. When night falls we sneak under the wall into the center. I am certain Cardinal Thorpe resides somewhere in the city. No doubt in a lavish residence or a palace," Edward said, laying out the next step of their plan.

The trio soon traversed the rest of the old harbor, leaving it behind and continued up the Tiber River. They had left Angloa almost two weeks ago, their country had only seen masses and masses of white snow. The Mediterranean coast was entirely different; almost as if they had traveled forth in time several months. Here the air was warm and pleasant. As Edward and now Jacob kept rowing, they had to stop a moment to shed their doublets, as they felt too warm in them.

"It feels as if we were at the end of April here," Jacob murmured to himself in wonder.

"It looks like it too," Carlisle concurred in astonishment. The grass growing next to the river was a clear emerald shade. It looked soft and inviting as it swayed with the gentle breeze. Some flowers had started sprouting as well, painting the green carpet with reds, whites and shades of purple and yellow. The trees sported small leaves, dotting the crowns in bright greens as the leaves felt the warmth of the sun for the first time. The bushes had started sprouting as well. It was a rare sight to behold for the Angloans, who had never seen the spring arrive before April.

They traveled up the river for a few hours, fighting the natural current until they saw the grand city in the distance. The sun was still high in the sky, even if it was afternoon.

"We wait here," Edward said, steering the boat off to the side. The three of them jumped out. Carlisle wasted no time and lay down in the soft grass, feeling the tiny strands brush against his warm back; heated by the constant rays of the sun. Edward tied the boat to a bush growing just by the water while Jacob placed the blanket and provisions to the side. He lay down as well, deciding to take another nap. The sweat that had soaked through his body slowly dried as the sun warmed him.

Edward plopped down next to them, exhausted as well. He searched through their provisions and took a big gulp of water as well as a piece of stale bread.

"Eat some, for I do not know when we will get the chance to do so again," he said, looking to his friends. But both Carlisle and Jacob had dozed off, caressed by the spring breeze and the sunbeams. The corner of his mouth twitched in a small smile as he kept eating his bread. Edward wrapped his cape around him, raising the hood to hide his mask. They were close to the road. He had no wish to scare the life out of some poor soul who happened to see him as they watered their horses or decided to take a nap in the grass as well.

He watched the straws next to the waterfront sway with the wind. Their movement was hypnotic and he drifted away from the world, consumed by the nature that surrounded him.

Edward looked around, making sure that no one was close. Jacob and Carlisle were fast asleep, not the sound of a thousand galloping horses would wake them. So he lowered his hood and started unlacing the back of his full-head mask. When the last of the laces were loosened, he took a deep breath and removed it.

For a moment he had forgotten how nice it felt to have the sun shine on his sweaty brow, or have the cool wind kiss his face. It was something he had not felt in a long time. He realized how he had taken it for granted before. Such a simple thing seemed heightened to him now, and it brought a sense of ecstasy to him. Edward lay down, clutching the mask in his hand, feeling the grass touch the back of his head, the small straws caressing the side of his face as he turned to the side. When it tickled him, he shut his eyes, reveling in the sensation. It had been long since he had felt like this—too long. He breathed in the scent of earth, made fresh by recently fallen rain. The grass still bore some dew from the previous rain and it soaked his face, washing away the tension and fatigue. He took off one glove and then the next, letting his bare hands glide through the dewy meadow. His eyes were still closed and the only thing he could think of was Isabella. The way nature was around him reminded him of her. The gentle chirp of a bird, the soft beams on his back, the fresh wind in his face—it all felt like her; her voice in his ear, her gaze on him, her touch, her scent…

His eyes wandered off to the mask once more, to his prison. He wished to cast it away one day. But one part of him was now afraid; would Isabella accept the man he was under the mask? Would she accept his face? Would she look past it and still see him? He wondered what her reaction would be; perhaps anger, or repulsion. Perhaps she would react as so many had before her; with absolute fear at what she saw. It was a direction he did not wish his thoughts to wander. Edward knew that he would have to unmask before her one day—especially if they were to share their lives together. But he did not look forward to that day.

As the sun started lowering on the sky, Carlisle commenced stirring when the temperature dropped. Edward put the mask back on before his friends saw him without it. He did not think they would like what they saw either. When he was putting on his second glove, Carlisle sat up, stretching his well-rested body. He caught Edward placing on his glove, but asked no questions. Instead, he looked at the sun, almost under the horizon.

"It is almost time," he stated.

"Wake Jacob," Edward said, getting up to investigate the road leading to the city. It was better if it was empty. If not, they'd have to travel next to it, unseen.

When he returned he found a groggy Jacob, replacing his doublet, running his hands through his hair.

"We should keep off the road for now," he said, removing the hood of his cape.

"Do you know where we can get into the city?" asked Carlisle. "Would it not be very guarded, considering it houses the Vatican as well?"

"There is a section of the wall where you can sneak under it. The guards don't know about it, yet. If we remain unseen no suspicion of our presence will arise," he said. "We leave the rest of the supplies here. Whatever we cannot carry on our backs will only slow us down. If we have to confront Braun and his men it will not help us anyway."

Jacob split the remaining bread with Carlisle and they both downed whatever water was left. After, they hid the blanket and sac of supplies by the bush that held the boat. They tied the other end to another bush so that it would be hidden under the foliage. When the three were satisfied with having hidden the boat, they commenced walking toward the city.

Once the sun was gone, darkness fell fast. Edward could still see Jacob and Carlisle in the dark since their faces were so light. But they had difficulty spotting him with his black attire and black mask. Only the occasional flash of his white shirt under his doublet or the enigmatic eyes told them where he was. Sometimes, they mistook him for yet another shadow in the dark landscape.

In the distance they saw Rome; a mighty city during centuries. The lights of torches around the walls made it stand out against the enveloping night. They spotted the main entrance, where guards would stop anyone that entered and ask them question. Edward had no doubt that their peculiar trio would have been stopped and perhaps even taken to the side, for further questioning. He was certain he would have been unmasked if that had been the case.

They trailed along the outer wall, ducking and hiding whenever a guard at the top passed with torches held high. They would press themselves against the stone, holding their breaths in hope that they would not be spotted.

After what seemed like hours, they finally arrived to the section of the wall that Edward had been speaking of. It clung to the river and they had to wade through it. They swam with great effort against the current, always close to the great stone blocks just by the river. Edward stopped once he recognized a marking in the stone.

"It is here," he said, turning to Carlisle and Jacob.

"But there is only solid rock here," hissed Jacob, fighting to hold himself up, for he could not swim.

"We have to dive," Edward deadpanned.

"What?!" Jacob could not believe what he was hearing. "I cannot swim and now you want me to dive? Have you gone completely mad?" he spat through the water, taking care in keeping his voice to a whisper. Edward only sighed.

"I will go first. I have a rope that I will tie around myself. Once I reach the other end you may go after, following the rope, Jacob. Carlisle, you will go last, making sure that no one sees us. Is all clear?" he said as he tugged at the rope he'd tied around his waist. He handed one end to Jacob and never waited for a reply before diving, his black form soon disappearing in the murky waters.

Jacob turned to Carlisle. "He is mad! Foolish and mad!" he exclaimed, a trace of panic in his voice as he realized that it was his turn next.

"It took you long enough to figure out," Carlisle answered with a smirk. "But look at it like this, when all of this is done, you will have an excellent story to tell your children and grandchildren," he chuckled. Jacob did not partake in Carlisle humorous countenance.

" _If_ I live to tell this to anyone will be the greatest miracle," he growled, soon feeling a few tugs on the rope he held in his hands. Jacob said a quick prayer before handing it over to Carlisle. He stared into the murky depths and decided that it was better to dive in there without thinking. So he took a deep breath, cursing the situation he found himself in and dove.

Jacob was blind, feeling the water tug at him in all directions. The only thing reassuring him was the taut rope, leading him through some sort of underwater tunnel. He had no idea how Edward had found it. He also wondered how Edward had managed to swim through it, for it was barely wide enough for him. Jacob kept dragging himself forward, using the rope as a guide. But when he never reached the end he started panicking, thinking that the tunnel would never end. His lungs started screaming in desperation and his blind senses only added to the growing fear and claustrophobia as he felt the walls come closer and closer. The young man never knew how long he had been there, but he started feeling his lungs give out on him.

He must have stopped for someone pushed him from the back. When Carlisle realized that Jacob was stuck, or unmoving he grew worried. Jacob's vision blurred as the air he had withheld escaped in big bubbles, clinging to the roof of the underwater tunnel. He started inhaling water when a strong, gloved hand suddenly found his collar and swiftly pulled him up.

Edward held the rope with one hand as he stared at an unmoving Jacob. His friend was still not breathing when Carlisle surfaced in the small pool next to the wall. Some stone houses surrounded them, but the area was dark and no guards seemed to be in the close vicinity. Edward cast away the rope once Carlisle was by his side.

"Is he breathing?" Carlisle said with alarm, rushing to check for himself.

"No," Edward murmured, placing an ear to his chest. At least his heart was beating. "There must be some water in his lungs."

"What do we do?" Carlisle' felt panic rising as Jacob lay there unmoving, his lips turning a shade bluer by the minute.

"Move aside," Edward growled. He did not know what to do either. But he knew they had to do something, or they would lose Jacob.

He positioned himself next to his friend. The only logical solution he could find was to press on Jacob's chest as hard as he could, in hopes that it would stir his lungs enough. Edward pressed, but nothing happened. He tried it again, harder this time. Jacob stirred somewhat, but no water came out.

"Help me turn him on his stomach," he whispered. They rolled Jacob over. Perhaps if he was on his stomach, with his airway cleared, the water would fall out. Edward started compressing Jacob's back, hoping the water would come out. But still, nothing happened. They decided to roll him back. When they turned Jacob to his side, he started coughing, water spurting out of his lungs as he drew deep, audible breaths—one after another, until he was breathing normally again. Edward helped him sit up, placing a hand behind his head, supporting his neck, as Jacob leaned forward, gasping for air.

"Never let me do that again!" he gasped in between breaths.

"You fool," Carlisle hissed, relief lacing his voice. "Why did you stop?!"

"I… I do not know. My body would not respond. I panicked," he winced, his breathing calming down as the color slowly returned to his lips.

"Leave him be, Carlisle. He is safe," Edward said, making sure Jacob was breathing alright. When he looked at the young man a twinge of guilt overtook him.

"Perhaps it is best if I continue alone," he started, standing up and moving away from them. Carlisle rose his head, looking at Edward as if he had turned mad.

"Are you in jest, Edward? Would you have us abandon you now? After having come so far?" Carlisle argued, standing up. "It is an insult I will not bear."

"I agree with Carlisle," Jacob rasped, still getting over the shock of having almost drowned.

"You almost died, Jacob." Edward clenched his jaw, not particularly appreciative of their commitment to follow him at the moment. "And it was all because you followed me," he said, gritting his teeth.

"We promised we would help you find Isabella. We gave our word to you, just as you gave yours to her. Would you have us break that word?" Carlisle asked, recognizing the guilt and hurt so present in Edward's eyes.

"Then I release you from any bound or word which has you obligated to me. You are free to go," he growled. He would not risk their lives. They were his _friends_ , his true friends.

Carlisle gave off a sarcastic laugh. "It does not work that way. You and I both know it. We will see this thing through, whether you are willing or not, Edward. Perhaps you have not realized it, but we keep together, we help each other; even if you have a higher title and more lands. We have fought side by side for years and we will not leave you so readily.

Edward was about to argue back when Jacob stopped him.

"How many times have you not saved us on the battlefield? During the war, you put your life on the line countless times so that we may live. And just now, you saved my life again. We do not help you because we feel we must—we do it because we want to," he added timidly, his voice still rough.

"That you would think otherwise is a grave insult to both me and Jacob," Carlisle added. It was the first time he expressed openly the friendship he held with Edward.

"We are brothers in arms, now and forever. I will not leave you to search for Isabella yourself. She is my friend as well, if you remember. Albeit, we've had our differences, but I still care for her, as a friend and as a brother," Jacob said, rising to stand next to them. Edward's lips tightened, it appeared the traumatic experience of almost having lost one of them had only reinforced the loyalty they felt toward him.

After a pregnant pause—where it looked as if he were deciding what to do with them—his tense shoulders finally relaxed. "Very well, but when I tell you to go away next time, no matter the situation, you will listen. Is that clear?" he said in a commanding voice. However, the small tug in the corner of his lips told otherwise. They both knew that Edward would never openly admit that he cared for them. But they knew: words were never necessary.

"You have my word," they said in unison.

Jacob recovered and they started moving like silent shadows along the streets of Rome. When they spotted a group of soldiers on their way to the center, they hid in a particularly dark alley, where no light from the lit windows would reach them.

"Do you know exactly where Thorpe's residence would be?" asked Carlisle as they sneaked through the small alleys. They felt like thieves, keeping away from the guards. But they argued it was better that way. Who knew, what if Mejías had sent word of them, proclaiming them to be escaped Angloan traitors? They could not take that chance and be captured.

"No. I only know he has a house here, to reside in for whenever he visits Rome and goes to the Vatican," he muttered.

"I cannot be sure to know of his whereabouts. But a good friend of my family resides here and keeps connections with the Papal States on behalf of Angloa. He once mentioned Thorpe's palace near Piazza Nicosia," Jacob whispered from the back. "If you know where that is we might know where Thorpe is," he continued. His voice was still hoarse from his coughing fit.

"We are not too far from there. It is by the river, going north from our current position," Edward said, looking in that general direction.

Thus, they wasted no time and started moving with the river, careful to not be spotted by the guards that marched on the streets. It was too dark to discern the general architecture or look of the city. Every once in a while, they would stumble on an ancient building. The old Roman buildings were out in the open, not buried beneath the ground, as was the case in Angloa; where the Roman ruins would often be the foundation for the medieval buildings.

A small walk that could have taken no longer than fifteen minutes, seemed like ages for the trio. Especially for Edward. Every second he hoped that Isabella would be in that building, waiting for him. He hoped that she had not lost faith in him, knowing that he would indeed come for her. Edward had tried to push away any thoughts regarding what Braun might have done to her. If he had touched as much as a hair on Isabella, the disgraced lord would know no mercy.

They arrived at the piazza and Edward immediately signaled out the building—no doubt a residence, standing out more lavish and luxurious than the rest. Thorpe had spared no expense when he had it built a few years ago.

The building, what looked like an irregular pentagon on closer inspection, was compromised of five floors. Guards stood posted at the front. They had no doubt that there were more patrolling throughout the building.

The trio continued keeping to the shadows, heading for the back of the residence. They hoped to find some sort of entrance. And, as luck would have it, some windows had been opened on the third floor, letting the spring air filter in through the rooms.

Edward saw it as an opportunity. They waited a while, to figure out the pattern of the guards. Once they realized that only two guards passed by the back every ten or fifteen minutes, they saw their opportunity.

Edward turned to face his friends. "I will scale the building and sneak in. Hopefully, Isabella is in one of these rooms. If I am not out within the hour, you are to leave this place," he ordered.

"You mean to say that we cannot come with you?" Jacob sounded confused as he spoke.

"You are in no shape to scale three stories after almost drowning. And you, Carlisle, I do not wish to question your abilities, but have you ever scaled a building such as this one before?" Edward asked. While Jacob kept quiet, Carlisle argued once more.

"I may not know how to scale buildings, but if you encounter trouble in there, it would be better to have two fighters rather than one." He was not about to let the masked man enter the lion's den without backing him up. But Edward only shook his head.

"One hour," he said, in a harsher tone this time. He glanced over his shoulders, watching the second guard pass before he darted to the façade. Carlisle was about to run after him when Jacob stopped him.

"We promised!" the younger man hissed. "Besides, Edward is right; if all of us go in there and we get captured, no one will be able to get help."

Carlisle could only stare as Edward started scaling the stones with great ability. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. "Maybe, but I could still have gone with him, there is no need for the both of us to stay here," he muttered. "Edward is not thinking straight, he is too blinded in his quest to find Isabella," Carlisle lamented.

Edward soon made it to the third floor, slipping into the room, pushing past the billowing curtains. Before stepping into it, he made sure that no one was present. But the dark space was more silent than a grave.

He wasted little time in taking in the lavish decorations and several frescoes painted directly on some walls. Instead, the masked man started creeping along the rooms, making sure he was never spotted. As the minutes drifted by, he grew more frustrated. Room after room stood silent—empty. He slipped down to the second and first floors, only finding servant's quarters and stables, housing the horses. He then began working his way up to the fourth floor.

Suddenly, in a hallway—stuck close to the square courtyard in the middle of the residence, a door opened. The light of the room spilled out into the hallway and a man stepped out, talking to himself.

Edward recognized that voice. It was Thorpe.

If he could not find Isabella, then Thorpe would tell him where she was.

The shadow started tailing the cardinal, waiting for a moment when he would not be within earshot of the guards or servants.

Thorpe turned left and started walking into a desolate hallway. The old cardinal could not help but feel that he was being followed by something. He turned around two times, afraid he would find some assassin, sent there by his enemies—for he had many in Rome. Alas, he only found emptiness. But the second time he turned around, he thought he spotted a shadow, near a window. Thorpe reasoned it was his own paranoia playing tricks on him. As the cardinal turned around he came face to face with a black mask, from which behind two raging green eyes stared him down with an eerie gaze. Before the cardinal could react, a gloved hand was placed over his mouth and he was pushed up against the wall.

" _Buona sera_ , eminence," Edward growled in his ear. He was slightly pleased when Thorpe began to shiver like a frightened rabbit under his hold. The rage in his eyes radiated in big waves, threatening to consume the cardinal.

"I take it you know why I am here," Edward continued, pressing harder against the smaller man when he tried to wiggle out of his iron grip. He studied him for a while, as if assessing the lesser man—judging every little detail he could find. There was a great deal of fear in Thorpe's eyes as he tried to avoid Edward's. But he did not seem like he expected him.

" _Where_ is she?" he said in a tone so dark and low that Thorpe felt as if the devil himself were talking into his ear. He was transported back to that day when Edward had challenged Alistair to a duel. He never got to see who won; although it was quite evident who had.

The harsh hand was suddenly removed from his mouth, allowing him to breathe. Thorpe felt the sweat pearl at his temples as he could not find the courage to speak.

"Tell me now, lest you want to die in this instance!" Edward exclaimed, taking great care in not speaking too loudly.

"I-I h-have no idea what you s-speak of," Thorpe stuttered, pressing against the wall, wishing it would consume him. He wanted nothing more than to get away from the demon before him.

Edward's stomach dropped when he realized Thorpe was telling the truth—he could see as much in his eyes. He had no idea what the masked man was referring to.

"I speak of Lord Oscar Braun—the traitor to the crown that you collaborated with, the man who kidnapped my fiancée!" In a hasty movement, Edward had drawn a knife, holding its steel tip against Thorpe's neck, hoping the weapon would encourage him to speak up faster.

"Braun? Traitor? I-I had no idea he was the one," Thorpe said in earnest. Edward remained silent as he cautiously eyed Thorpe. "I mean to say, I had my suspicions—of many at court, I might add. But I rather thought it was Lord Athar, not Braun who was the traitor," Thorpe added. Edward only snickered at this.

"Your lies have no effect on me. The moment Miss Swan's maid confessed, you saw it as a tool to take down an adversary of yours, is that not so? Thomas Athar was one of the most powerful men in Angloa. With him out of the way it would only pave the way for you. Am I wrong? Or maybe you were in on the plot to overthrow the king. Once you realized it was about to happen you fled the country, in case it did not turn out in your favor," Edward suggested, disgusted with the petty man before him. "It was a smart move, for the plot failed," he added, mocking the cardinal.

"I swear to you, my lord, that I never had a hand in such a plot! I only had suspicions and, as a man with morals and loyalty to my king, I acted on them. When evidence pointed against Athar, I only presented said evidence to the king!" he exclaimed, trying to save his reputation. Edward did not care if he spoke lies or truth anymore.

"Where are Braun and my fiancée!" he demanded, raising his voice. He no longer cared if the guards heard him. Thorpe cowered more, feeling the tip of the knife imbed itself within his neck.

"They are not here, my lord, I promise you! I swear on all that is holy!" Thorpe exclaimed, shivering like a frightened animal. Edward clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth.

"You swear, do you? Let us put that to the test. Where are your quarters?"

"One floor up, but—" Thorpe was cut short as Edward put a hand over his mouth and started guiding him to the stairs, leading up to the fourth floor. The cardinal saw the stairs swish by as he was dragged up them. The masked man then took them through the hallway.

"Tell me which door is yours. I warn you, Thorpe, any tricks and I will not think twice before I skin you like the pig you are," the masked man growled in his ear. Thorpe had to concentrate hard to control his bladder, for it was threatening to spill its contents after that sentence. He only nodded vigorously. Thorpe showed Edward the doors leading to his quarters.

They walked past his bed, to the small stand by the window. There he had some candles lit, a Bible, with a cover in mohair and a silver cross, hanging under an exquisite painting, showcasing a pieta. The rest of the chamber was richly decorated in fine textiles and other beautiful paintings. Edward even wondered if some were by famous artists, such as the recently deceased da Vinci.

He dragged Thorpe to the Bible. "You are a God-fearing man, I hope," he said, the enigmatic eyes seemingly tearing into the very soul of the man. Thorpe could only nod.

"Then swear on this Bible that you told me the truth, that you do not house Braun or Isabella Swan here. Swear that you do not know now or have never known of their whereabouts. Someone I trust heard _your_ name being mentioned by Braun and his associates the day they left Angloa. Thus, I have my suspicions," Edward said, motioning for the cardinal to step forth to the little book that awaited him at the stand.

Cardinal Thorpe stared from Edward to the Bible. He then looked at the cross, making its sign and stepping up to swear. But as he was about to place his palm on the soft cover, the man took a hesitant step back. He feared the wrath of his God more than he feared Edward.

"I cannot swear then, because I might know where they are," Thorpe said, defeat laced his voice. But that defeat sounded like music to Edward's ears. He had managed to pick up the trace on Isabella's location. He was now closer to finding her.

"She is not here, that I can assure you. And neither is Braun. I never kept _that close_ relations with him. He did me some favors, which I… have yet to return. I assure you I never thought him a traitor. But if Lord Braun has kidnapped her and is fleeing Angloa, there might only be one place he can head, safe from persecution," Thorpe continued. He relaxed when Edward made no move to stop him, placing all his attention in what the man was saying.

"When he was younger, Lord Braun attended a court overseas—first as a liaison, to strengthen our ties, then as a full fleshed ambassador, some twenty years ago. He made powerful friends there, friendships and connections that lasted throughout the years. He will have gone there to seek shelter; which they will provide, of course. You see, Braun had assets purchased. He kept them through a loyal friend that took care of his possessions. He must be going there to reclaim them now." Thorpe waited for Edward to speak. But what he saw in his eyes was a racing mind, trying to make sense of the words. The grip he had on Thorpe lessened slightly. The night seemed darker as, in the back of his mind, Edward suddenly realized that Isabella was not there, but someplace else, far away from his reach.

"Where is this place?" Thorpe relaxed as he noticed a hint of desperation in Edward's voice; the fool was blinded by that young woman.

"It is a place few people from our part of the world ever get to see," Thorpe snickered, personal resent lacing his voice. He now took his time answering the question, savoring each second that passed, tormenting Edward further.

"Tell me where it is," Edward said, each word turning heavier in his mouth as they escaped his lips. The old man would, for some reason, not answer right away. It caused Edward to lose his patience.

"If you do not tell me where she is, I will remove my mask. The sight of you turning mad will be amusing to watch," he growled. The words escaped like venom from his mouth, filled with rage and malice. Thorpe had only heard rumors about Edward's face. He had no wish to toy with the sight that lay beneath.

"Braun has most likely taken Miss Swan to Constantinople," Thorpe said. The words were rushed, for Edward's hand had started to travel to the laces behind his head. But once those words were uttered, his hand stopped, as if some invisible force had frozen it in place.

Thorpe could not help himself as he took pleasure in watching the otherwise composed man crumble slightly.

"I suppose he has taken her as security. Slaves from our corner of the world are highly sought after, especially women for the aristocrats' Harems. Although, if she is lucky, she might end up at the Sultan's," he mused. The knife against his throat was removed as Edward stepped back.

"Constantinople?" The words echoed in that silent room as Edward came to terms with where Isabella was being taken.

A place he had once called home.

It had been a place he had loved, at one time. A place he had been happy with Sofia. Edward thought he would spend his whole life living happily there. But it seemed fate had other plans in store for him.

Suddenly, without realizing it, Edward let go of the cardinal who darted to the door, screaming at the top of his lungs. But he never ran after him. He knew it was too late, the servants or guards would have heard those shouts.

He calmed himself, staring at the window to his left. Edward opened them, ready to climb out and exit the same way he had come. As soon as he was over the edge, guards ran into the room, shouting at each other in Italian to look for the masked intruder. Edward was thankful for his muscles, allowing him to rapidly climb down to the street—where he would no doubt soon meet up with Jacob and Carlisle.

One guard noticed the opened window and looked down. His mouth gaped open as he saw a figure in black swiftly climbing down the side of the house. It took him a full minute before he turned around to his friends, to signal the location of Edward.

He heard them, looming over the edge of the window. Someone aimed a knife at him, trying to make Edward lose his grip. He clung to the side of the house, still on the second floor. Edward looked up, gritting his teeth as most of them had disappeared. They had no doubt decided to warn their friends. He moved faster, hoping Carlisle and Jacob were still hiding.

Shouts could be heard from the other side of the residence and it was all Edward needed; he took a deep breath, measured the distance to the ground and jumped back. The masked man landed softly on his feet, with the sure footing of a cat. He looked around, not met by his friends. Just as he was about to disappear, a swarm of guards rounded the corner, weapons drawn. Swords pointed at his chest and some even carried pistols, aiming carefully at his head.

"Surrender or we fire!" one of them shouted in Italian. Edward gritted his teeth, not sure what to do. He had no chance against the pistols, unless Jacob or Carlisle had seen him from their hiding place. If they created a diversion, the masked man could fight off the guards long enough to escape.

But it was not the case. As the guards circled him, still carefully aiming their weapons at him, some broke through the circle, holding another prisoner.

It was Carlisle, with his hands tied behind his back.

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter here. I hope you like it. It is a little bit longer but I felt this was a good place to end it. It seems I can't avoid ending my chapters at cliffhangers. From now on there will be a little more action as we move forth, for both Bella and Edward, which is really exciting. I did quite some research regarding ports close to Rome and what they would've used those days. I hope it's accurate, any Italians out there that might have more insight please let me know if I got it terribly wrong. I hope not!**


	6. Chapter 6

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 6_

 _September 15th, 1467 – Wessport_

"We had to get the stone from another quarry, Your Majesty. The first one is in full use as it is," said the architect as they went over the plans. The thick paper placed in front of them showed intricate architectural designs, all working together to form a vision.

"Understandable," muttered Philip as he kept looking at the elegant arches and light that streamed in from the tall windows. There was something about the gentleness of the light illuminating that space which spoke to him. The Blue Room was one of the first sections to be completed.

His heart swelled as his dream of a new capital emerged from the growing Palace. It was a slow process that had taken years to complete. And many more years were required before it was finished. But he was patient and would wait. The sheer size of the fortress showcased the arrogance of the king, and he did little to hide it. Yet, in some small corner of his heart, Philip would miss Adelton Hall and Cadherra—where he had grown up with his brother. Alas, every thought of that once home was like plunging the knife deeper. His son's image tore a hole in him, an unexplainable sadness that would never completely go away.

He excused himself from the architect and his builders. Philip would leave from Wessport to Cadherra—where court was still held. He gazed over the small fishing huts that clung to the waterfront. As word got out that the king had planned to move court to the north, both noblemen and commoners had started preparing for a move. While the aristocrats made sure that elegant townhouses were built as close to the palace as possible, the lower classes moved north, building their houses with their own hands.

The city grew, extending its arms over the open field like the tentacles of an octopus. Slowly but surely it would come together.

Philip pulled the coat closer around him as the cold winds hit him square in the face. They brought the fragrance of the ocean with them, the salt and water washed away the smell of fish and seagull. He moved to the docks as the waves danced violently in unison with the winds. When the people manning the docks saw the handsome king arrive, escorted only by two trusted knights, they all bowed deeply, not daring to look at him directly. Philip's midnight hair got tousled by the wind and his clean-shaven face felt the first drops of rain as the heavens opened up to the oncoming storm.

He boarded the grand ship, the sails up and ready for the monarch before setting out to sea. His captain greeted him as he went below deck.

Marianne sat by the window, a wax candle lit so that she could read her book in peace. The last few years had been hard on her. For after the loss of her young son the mother had spiraled into a small depression. But she herself had finally managed to break loose from it. Her love and affection toward Philip had only grown after. And the couple found comfort in each other's presence. She knew that her husband had started worrying about an heir. He wasn't as young as he used to be—as if the sands of time were running out faster now. Philip did not look it, but he felt considerably older. Without the laughter of his son, being in Adelton had become unbearable. So the king had decided to travel around the country, making trips to each region, seeing the state they were in. He had done a lot of good in just a few years and his popularity among the people was growing.

His portrait had started gracing some homes of his nobles, even if the king insisted they were not necessary, for he had never been that vain. Athar had soon seen the same treatment as he gave the king wise and just council.

"Marianne," he smiled as he saw his beautiful wife. She put the book away to go and kiss him.

"Is all in order?" she asked.

"We will be able to move here by next summer. It will be a fresh start. Wessport will be a new and prospering capital," Philip smiled as he envisioned the future.

"Have you spoken to Magnus yet?" Marianne usually ignored the subject, but she felt the need to reconsolidate the two arrogant brothers. Philip turned sour at the name of his younger brother; sour and sad.

"No. He has retired up north with Rebecca and the Triennes. Sometimes I feel as if she would poison his mind against me!" he exclaimed. "She is quite the opposite of you, Marianne."

"I think they both have suffered after the passing of their daughter. They turn to vanity and power for solace while we turned to each other and the mission to better this country," Marianne smiled.

"I do not like the path Magnus is going down." Philip still remembered how they would hunt in Raven's Grove when they were younger. Those days seemed a lifetime ago. It made him sad to think that he could not have his brother by his side. "I feel he is taking out his anger on me for the loss of both our children; for not running away when the plague hit us. Maybe he has a poin—"

"Shh! Do not speak such words. Without our help, more than half the population would have perished. And what would have happened to those who lived after? You did the right thing, Philip. Never think otherwise, and never regret such a choice. We have to be there for Magnus and show him the right path as well. He is still your brother."

"Yes. But I think the biggest reason for his aversion to me, or for his despise towards me is that I did not give him the Cadherra province. He was not happy that I handed it over to Lord Swan and made him a Count," Philip sighed. "But there is no one else but Swan that I trust with that place. I know he will take good care of it."

"Then there is nothing more to say, my love."

Marianne glanced over at the bed that had been made for them. They were leaving port, sailing south to New London where they were currently staying.

"Why don't you undress and relax. We could lay down in bed, you and I," she said softly, looking at him. Marianne still saw that young and strong 30-year-old that she had fallen in love with. She ignored the gray hairs that had started forming around his temples or the deepened wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. He was still as handsome and as charming as ever in her eyes. And she was still very willing to go to bed with him.

A fire lit in Philips eyes and a smile spread on his lips as he understood what she meant. He pulled her into a warm embrace, whispering sweet words in her ear as he slowly moved to kiss her neck. Philip delighted in his wife's shivers, happy that the romance in their marriage was far from dying out.

 _June 6th, 1468 – Western Sorossa_

Another cry sounded in the mansion as Rebecca Fell tried to calm herself. "How can you _not_ lift a finger in my family's defense?" she shouted at her husband. The servants of the middle-aged prince quietly snuck away, not too eager to be caught in the crossfire of yet another fight.

"Because my brother is the _king_!" Magnus exclaimed. "His word is law! If he does not wish to grant these northern lands to your kin then there is little I can do," he growled, getting tired of her constant nagging.

Rebecca scoffed at him, raising a finger to point accusingly at her husband. "And you call yourself a man. I cannot believe you and Philip are related," she spat. "He would have done anything to please Marianne, and you know it!" she screamed, ready to hurl something else at him. Magnus tried to ignore the hurtful words. He was tired of constantly being compared to his brother—his perfect brother, his wise brother. Everything Philip did was always good, but Magnus never got such praise. He was left to fend for himself in the shadow of his sibling.

"Even after losing his child he did not let it put him down. And what did you do?" Rebecca screamed with tears in her eyes thinking of the day she had to say goodbye to her little daughter. "You do nothing! You have no purpose!" She flayed her arms around her as she continued insulting her husband. "Maybe I am the one who should wear the trousers in this family. For you have no ambition—"

"Ambition for what, woman? And be very mindful of what you aim to say. For if it is what I am thinking, then such thoughts are treasonous," Magnus growled, growing tired of her high pitched voice, always sounding in his ear, always whispering. Her lust for money and power had already gotten him into trouble several times, he did not need her to meddle more in his affairs.

"No," she snarled at him. "I would not have you be king, for you would only make a pathetic one." It seemed to be enough for Magnus as he reached out to her grabbing her hard by both arms as if aiming to strike her. But he stopped himself when he saw where he was going.

Rebecca only laughed at his hesitation, a laugh that sounded more like a cackle to him. "You cannot even discipline your wife, you worthless piece of dirt! I would have been better off marrying a peasant!" she clawed her way out of his grasp, shutting the door firmly behind her as she stormed away from their shared chamber.

Magnus sank down in his chair, bitter. He was bitter toward his wife, bitter toward his brother and anyone else in his immediate vicinity. A hatred brewed within him, something that had only grown since the court had been moved to Wessport. The moment Adelton Hall was left to Lord Swan, his troubles began. He lost his power and holding at court, along with any previous alliances as his wife's family started scheming for more and more. Magnus was now associated with them, and as tainted as them—even if he had done nothing wrong.

But, perhaps Rebecca was right, was all that would run through his mind. Perhaps he had to regain his lost power and rise once more, maybe even defy his arrogant brother.

 _January 13th, 1469 – Southern Castell_

"…he insulted me openly, Magnus. Will you allow that?" Rebecca paced the room, as she so often did. They were far up north, near Castell. Her father and uncles were present as she retold of her latest visit to the capital—where Magnus would no longer go. He had not seen his brother in years, he could not stand the sight of seeing a man he practically detested in good humor, adored by those who surrounded him.

Alas, his wife had other thoughts. She wished to lavish in the indulgences of the city; its parties and newly founded merchant districts. Some lower lords had plotted to steal a shipment of currency from the crown, traveling south to New London. They had been caught red-handed, with ties to Rebecca's family. As she had been in the capital, she herself had been suspected of involvement. The king had personally interrogated her, releasing her on good faith as there was no proof of her involvement in the end. The thieves had been executed in private, away from public eye.

"The humiliation is too much to bear," she said, sorrow lacing her voice.

"But were you involved?" the aged prince asked.

Her father rose up, seemingly insulted on his daughter's behalf. "How dare you? You may be the brother of the king, but it gives you no right to think so of my daughter—of your own wife!"

"She may be my wife and your daughter. But if my brother interrogated her himself—"

"He struck me!" Rebecca exclaimed. It was rushed and anyone else might've seen her words were far from true.

"What?!" Magnus now rose from his seat, ire taking hold at the thought of someone striking his Rebecca. "That cannot be." But he was not too inclined to think well of his brother at that moment.

"When I would not confess he lost his temper and struck me."

"But I thought my brother was just and fair…" Magnus trailed off, his bitterness toward his brother rising.

"Oh my sweet and innocent husband," Rebecca cooed as she neared him. "You have not seen him in years—seen how he has changed. What people say about him are mere lies, told out of fear that his many spies in this kingdom will hear and report it to him." She caressed his face. Magnus grew angrier by the moment.

"If what you say is true then he must have gone mad with power!" he exclaimed. Angloa had indeed prospered since court had been moved to Wessport. The government and the crown were now more involved than ever in international matters. News traveled to the coastal town faster by ship than it would have by horse.

"A man like that should not rule," Rebecca's older uncle said carefully, watching slowly at Magnus' reaction. They were all watching what he would say, hoping his next few words would bring them joy.

"My brother has done good for this country, Lord Warren. But if his portrayal of himself is false, if he is as scheming and manipulating as you say—if he would concoct lies about my wife and her family then it has to end! Who knows what he could turn into within a few years!" Magnus had cast aside any sense of logic, letting only his emotions rule now.

"My love," Rebecca whispered in his ear. "Perhaps we could put a stop to it and secure the country for the people once more." Magnus was blinded by her soft smile and gentle eyes. He never saw the brutal lie that she so expertly placed before him. Had he known then, he would have shivered at the cruelty of the woman he shared his bed with.

"What? No, I have no claim to the throne," Magnus suddenly said.

"Philip is old, Your Highness. He and the queen have yet not given us any heirs. It is only a matter of time before the crown passes over to you," Lord Warren said in a cold tone. "He is over fifty now, patience will be our virtue and when _you_ are king, no one will ever disrespect your wife like that again." Magnus let himself be fooled and brainwashed by the men and women before him. He sucked in their false words like a sponge, never realizing the reality behind them.

"A matter of time…" he trailed off. "And I could become king." It was a thought he had fought against his whole life. Magnus knew he had no right to the throne. He was the _second_ son: the spare. Yet, his eyes clouded suddenly, as something new arose inside him—a yearning and lust for power. It was a sickness that had already claimed his wife and her kinsmen. Magnus let the darkness envelop him, never realizing it in the first place.

* * *

 _March 13th, 1520 – Rome_

The sun broke through the early morning mist, warming up the sleepy city that was Rome.

In a dark cell, closely guarded by the local guard of the city, were two men. Carlisle had been handcuffed to the iron bars while Edward was chained to the cold stone wall.

Edward could feel his head weigh heavy as his eyes closed slowly. Cardinal Thorpe had shown no mercy when they were captured. After having turned them over to the armed forces of the city, he had specified that they were to be treated as harshly as possible. The cardinal had sneaked a big coin purse into the hands of the Sergeant who had greedily accepted it.

"Wake up! You are to answer our questions!" screamed someone in Italian. Carlisle couldn't care less, for all he could think of was getting out of there.

Edward kept to himself, never speaking, never breaking. The guards were more wary of him, not even daring to remove his mask. As they had brought them in they remarked on the eerie similarity the two bore to some men that had been reported escaping from a ship arriving from Málaga. The ship's captain, Juan Mejias, had sent out a disturbing message to the local authorities that said men were escaped traitors who had tried to overthrow the Angloan king.

When they had made sure that both men were yet awake, the guards decided to take a break. As dawn was upon them, they were soon to change their post, ready to hit the pillow after a long night.

"Where is Jacob?" Edward rasped as soon as they were left alone. Somewhere water was dripping—a hollow echo sounded in the murky dungeon. Only one corner saw a thin beam of light filter through, the ray as hollow as the sound of the dripping water. The cold crept up on the two men and they could not help but shiver, like so many others in that dungeon. But they did not lament or moan in pain. Some prisoners lay amidst the thin layer of hay spread on the stone ground, wailing in misery after having been tortured.

"I don't know," Carlisle answered. His voice escaped him like a mere whisper. "I went after you as you climbed the façade. Some guards had spotted you and I took them out. Jacob stayed put—as watch—in case some guards snuck up on me. When Thorpe came out screaming that you were there, I was set upon by a large group, rounding the corner of the house. When I looked back, Jacob was gone. I do not think they took him, he must have escaped." The words sounded more like Carlisle was trying to reassure himself.

"Let us hope so…" Edward trailed off. His mind was lost in a thoughtless cloud. He felt ten years older, every waking moment after his talk with Thorpe had sent his mind spinning.

"Braun is taking Isabella to Constantinople," he said after a long silence. Carlisle felt his mouth open slightly at the words.

"What?!" the cry echoed, bouncing off the humid walls. It pierced the stillness of their cell with a metallic rip. Edward's sigh followed shortly after. It was laced with impatience, anger and something else—a deep-set worry that embedded itself within his core.

"Thorpe says he's had no connection with Braun. Whether that is true or not is unimportant now. But he told the truth about their whereabouts. At least, that is where he thinks they are heading. And I believe him."

The tight iron handcuffs around his wrists did not hurt him. The fact that he was locked to the cold wall gave him little pain in comparison to the knowledge of what Isabella might be heading for. But Edward never told Carlisle—he never mentioned that his fiancée might be sold off like cattle to the highest bidder.

Having traveled he had seen much. Edward had seen the injustices of the Inquisition, their mere mention managed to bring strong and powerful men to their knees. But he had also seen the horror of slavery, the misery, and tragedy it brought. If that was where Isabella was headed, he feared losing her forever. And the masked man did not wish to share that with Carlisle. He did not wish to share the sheer horror he felt at that moment, the pain and fright that grew in the pit of his stomach.

Carlisle looked at Edward who hung off his cuffs, securing him to the wall. He never knew what went through the masked man's mind, but he trusted in him. He knew they would get to Constantinople and save Isabella.

"We will sail there and we will rescue her, Edward. Braun must be desperate if he is willing to travel so far." The hope in Carlisle's voice felt like another blow to him. He was almost ashamed that Carlisle held more hope of finding Isabella than he himself did. Edward was afraid that he would not find the same Isabella that he kissed goodbye all those weeks ago.

"If we get out of here," Edward gritted, pulling against the restraints. The iron chains collided with the stone wall, rattling eerily, the sound spreading as a muffled whisper in the dungeon.

Carlisle rested his forehead against the bars of their cell. "If we can explain ourselves we should be released within a few days," he reasoned.

"They will not let us explain ourselves, not when I practically broke into the residence of a cardinal—an ordained bishop of the church," Edward growled to himself.

"You couldn't be more right, Cullen," came a slithering voice from the shadow.

Both men tensed up as a figure dressed in red appeared in the yellow light of the torches. His voice bounced off the walls, a hollow echo, just like that drop of water.

" _Buon dia_ , my lord," Thorpe teased, marveling at the sight before him. He could not be happier to see Edward Cullen in chains. When none of the men answered, Thorpe continued.

"I must say, the sight of you in chains gives me great pleasure," Thorpe mused, walking closer to the iron bars. He cast a quick glance at Carlisle, not even bothering to speak to him. Edward felt those small eyes try to penetrate through his shield, never managing to break the wall he had built around himself.

"Then you have not known much pleasure in this world, Thorpe," Edward rasped, looking up to meet the Cardinal's gaze with his own. The moment their eyes met Thorpe took a step back, despite himself. The anger and ire in those green orbs scared him more than he cared to admit.

"I suspect you wonder what will happen to you now," Thorpe trailed off. He had no reason to reveal what awaited them. But after the great insult of having been beset in his own home, the cardinal saw the matter as personal. When none of the men reacted to his words he continued, offended that they did not even bother to defend themselves.

"You, Lord Cullen, are faced with crimes of threatening a servant of the church and breaking into his home. Your friend, Sir Chaeld, is charged with helping you. The consequences of your trial will not bode well for you," Thorpe mused.

"A trial is all we need to prove our innocence," Carlisle spat. "When the tribunal understands who we are we will be released in an instance."

"And why would they do that?" the cardinal asked, his voice condescending as he turned to speak to Carlisle for the first time.

"We chase a traitor to the crown, a traitor that you might be involved with, from what I understand. If anything, this trial will only serve to instigate an investigation into your affairs with Braun, Cardinal Thorpe," Carlisle growled, pulling at his restraints.

His words made Thorpe grow flustered, his chins jumping up and down as he scrambled for words to defend himself with.

"Why, I never—" Thorpe began, only cut short once more by Carlisle.

"Edward and I have done nothing wrong. You are the one who should fall under suspicion," Carlisle continued.

"I have no blot on my character, sir!" Thorpe exclaimed. "I am as moral as they come and I assure you I never had any illegal nor treasonous dealings with Lord Braun," he continued. "You two, on the other hand, are suspected of having taken part in the plot to overthrow King Jasper Fell and his court. We have a witness who picked you up in Málaga. He has more than enough to keep you here for quite a while." The Cardinal rambled away, growing redder by the minute. It seemed he was convincing himself more than anyone else.

"You know as well as I that we never played a part in overthrowing His Majesty," Edward spoke up after having stayed silent for a while. He had silently cursed at Carlisle, his friend's words could indeed keep them there longer. It seemed Thorpe was not aware what a trial could mean for him. If the Cardinal could stop the trial, they could indeed be in for some serious danger.

Thorpe turned to face the masked man again, a sinister scowl growing on his face, followed by a mocking grin. "Well, how am I to know? I was not there at the hour of the coup. I was here, in Rome, as many will confirm. You, on the other hand, have no witnesses. Bringing someone from Wessport will take time. Time, my dear Count, I do not believe you have. Did you not say Braun had _taken_ that fiancée of yours?"

Carlisle pulled at his restraint, not knowing how Edward could remain so calm before such words. But neither Carlisle nor the cardinal saw the seething hatred concealed beneath the leather mask.

"Try to keep me here, Thorpe, and it will be the biggest mistake of your life." Edward's words sounded grave as he spoke. His voice dropped and sounded like a predatory growl. It made Carlisle's skin crawl as he saw the two eyes turn into fire. Thorpe took a hesitant step back, grateful for the bars and chains that separated them.

There were no more words exchanged, for Thorpe felt the sudden urge to leave that infernal prison. As he turned his back to those men, he secretly made the sign of the cross, feeling relief—as if the Lord would keep him safe from the masked demon that now haunted him wherever he looked.

 _March 19th, 1520 – Constantinople, Ottoman Empire_

Sights, sounds and smells she had never seen all invaded her five senses quicker than the flash of lightning.

The harbor was wide and open, neat little houses clinging to the edge of the maritime walk.

They were at the harbor of Theodosius, on the south side of the peninsula where the once mighty Byzantium stood—now under new rule, for at least 70 years. It faced the Sea of Marmara.

In one distant part of the harbor, great ships were put together. Long wooden planks were carefully bent to fit the frame of the wooden structures, soon to be sailing on the Mediterranean. She turned around to see two stone walls stretching out into the waters on either side of the harbor, almost enclosing it save one opening. Two towers stood as guards at the entrance, deciding which ships could enter and which could not.

Theirs was Angloan, it would enter.

Isabella let her chocolate eyes take in everything as they slowly neared the docks, soon to set foot upon this new land—exotic and foreign. She, a young woman who had never stepped foot outside of Angloa, now found herself on the other side of the continent. It was a distressing thought, but—at the same time—it opened her eyes up to a world she had never been aware of before. There was something else that lay beyond her little island to the west.

More tall and wide towers framed the façade of the harbor, no doubt controlling who entered and who left.

As their ship docked, Braun and his men prepared to leave the vessel. One thing Isabella was sure of as she took in the strangely dressed men and women—the tall, thin towers in the distance, poking into the clouds on the hill upon which the city lay; this was not Rome.

"I have prepared accommodations for us. Someone will prepare you for the coming days," Braun murmured close to her ear as he watched her take in the sight of the city.

Isabella turned to face him, too distraught to be offended by his nearness. When her brow furrowed slightly, he could not help his own eyebrow rise in question.

"Where are we?" was all she could muster, afraid what the answer might be.

Braun only smiled-an enigmatic smile that made her cold to the core. "You will know in due time," he answered.

She turned again and took a deep breath as the walkway from the ship to the docks was lowered. They were about to descend.

Braun offered his arm to her and the brunette never hesitated as she blatantly refused it. With her head held high, she walked off the ship herself, letting her eyes wander the crowd.

She saw a young boy in tattered old gray pants and a thin coat thrown over his shoulders run after a group of older boys, screaming in a language she had never heard before. She saw an old man, propped up against the walls framing the city, begging for a coin. He was a frail thing, holding his wooden cup up to the pedestrians that never seemed to see him. Isabella saw some women, accompanied by men with lavish beards. The women wore tunics in vibrant colors, in fine silk. They bore veils over their heads and their faces were covered from the nose and down, only revealing exuberant eyes—one look enough to attract the attention of any man who stumbled by.

The air smelled of spices, fish, and sea. Seagulls could be heard over the loud chatter. In the distance, a strange instrument played, its tunes floated like the waves of the ocean through the air.

Suddenly, a palanquin came to halt right in front of her. The red box awaited the young woman as she stared at it. Isabella had never seen its likeness. Braun stepped over to her and opened the door for Isabella to climb in.

"My lady, this will take you to your accommodations," he explained, waiting impatiently for her to get in. But Isabella refused. She did not trust in Braun, she hated and despised him. However, what security had she that he would just not lead her to some strange place and strand her there?

"I will not get into that!" she spat, crossing her arms. Isabella tried to muster up what little dignity she had left. Her torn gown, dirty from having been worn for so long did little to add to her composure. Her disheveled hair and thinning face stared back at him with hatred. Some people sneaked a few stares as they passed her.

Isabella did not care.

Braun took a firm grip on her arm and dragged her closer to him. "You will get into the palanquin or I will make you, you spoiled wench!" he hissed in her face. But Isabella still refused. As Braun lost his patience he ordered his men to force the young woman into the ornate box. The bearers watched in silent astonishment and amusement as the young foreigner was pushed into the palanquin, fighting and screaming. Braun smoothed his thinning hair back, getting frustrated.

He turned to one of the bearers and signaled for him to go. "Take her away from here. You know of where I speak. Send word to me when she's safely delivered," he snapped, quickly getting into a palanquin of his own. He was eager to arrive in his home and change into more comfortable and clean clothes.

Isabella fell back as the vehicle rose from the ground. Once it set into motion she stopped banging on the wooden walls. Her hand went to her thigh where Zoráida's knife rested safely. She no longer had any doubts about using it. This was her chance to flee—far away from Braun. But she hesitated. Isabella had no idea where she was and she did not even understand the language that was spoken.

A small window to her left offered her view of the streets as they walked up the hill of the city. Exotic sights and smells were all that invaded her mind. She felt her thoughts spinning as her eyes were confused by what they saw: houses with rounded arches, colorful doorways, men and women dressed in fine yet strange clothes. Stands shadowed by colorful tents.

The road seemed never-ending. And then she saw it, in the distance, between some houses. The sight took her breath away. A building unlike anything she had ever seen rose up amongst the other structures that surrounded it. Half domes were extending from the larger central dome that carried on smaller semi-dome exedras. The exterior was clad in render, tinted yellow and red. The dome was carried by spherical triangular pendentives, transitioning the circular structure of the dome to the rectangular base below. Graceful buttresses reinforced this structure, stretching out like the legs of a spider, enveloping around the central building.

Elegant minarets; slender towers built in limestone stretched high up in the sky, surrounding the central building.

Isabella had never seen anything as impressive and massive in her life. The alien structure seemed to call her, somewhere in her memory Isabella felt that she should recognize it. But the thought quickly faded as a stone house blocked her view. She decided to close the window and block out the surrounding world.

It seemed like an eternity until the palanquin finally stopped. The door was opened and the young Angloan was coaxed out. She stood in an arched doorway, guarded by several fierce looking men. The building rose up high like another tower in the city, elegant yet simple. A woman approached her, her face covered by a blue veil. She bowed once she reached Isabella. As she bowed, the vast red doors before them opened, to reveal an exquisite courtyard. It was rectangular in shape, stretching far. A rectangular pool was in the middle, encircled by low hedges—greener than the greenest pastures she had ever seen. Elegant and intricate pillars in light stone stood close to the walls, giving a shaded walking area; it was the gallery. The second floor with wide rounded arches offered a view from the upper floor.

"My lady, it is my pleasure to welcome you," said the shorter woman in a harsh accent. Her light eyes contrasted harshly with the darker tone of her skin. The look in her eyes was harsh, void of any friendliness or compassion. She seemed used to seeing lost and confused women like Isabella.

"Where is this place?" Isabella demanded, trying to mask the fear she held.

"You have arrived at his lordship's house—one of his houses. He wishes to have you settled in before presenting you," the woman spoke. "Follow me," she commanded, turning to walk in through the gates, never waiting for the girl to answer.

Isabella stared after her, watching the enigmatic woman walk into what looked like paradise. Flowers in all colors lined the hedges, green ivy slithered up along the walls of the courtyard. In the middle of the pool, a fountain came to life. It felt like she was to make the decision of her life. Isabella was certain that if she ran now, they would keep her under harsh surveillance, find Zoraida's knife and crush any hope for her to flee in the future.

There was another choice—a harsher choice. She could follow that woman to wherever she was taking her, accept what lay beyond that courtyard and plant a seed for her future escape.

In the flash of a second—as quickly as she had started thinking about it, Isabella made up her mind. She would follow that woman, take whatever was thrown at her and eventually make her way back. She would not step down now.

Her torn gown trailed after her, attracting the eyes of the guards as she strolled in through the gates—claustrophobia grabbing hold as the doors promptly shut behind her. The blazing sun burned into every nook and cranny of her exposed skin.

Isabella focused on the footsteps of the woman, setting into the same rhythm, ignoring everything else. She took note of how many ornate corridors they walked through, of how many lavish corners they rounded. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they stopped in front of a door, shaped like a horseshoe. A see-through blue fabric draped the closed entrance. The woman with the light eyes pushed the fabric away as she unlocked it. She turned and waited for Isabella to enter.

"Go!" she demanded after the young Angloan hesitated. Isabella glared as she walked past, trying to control her shivers as yet another door was closed behind her, this time it was locked as well.

 _March 15th, Rome_

"Hello?" Carlisle rasped again. He felt like he had been calling out nonstop for days, which he had. In a sense. But the guards ignored them. He suspected it was Thorpe's doing.

"At least give us some water!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, rattling his chains as much as he could. One irritated guard came to scream at him in Italian to stop. Carlisle had no clue as to what insult might be thrown his way, not that he cared much at that point.

"Aqua! Aqua!" he begged, hoping his Latin would help him there. He only got a sinister snarl as the guard shook his head and offered yet another insult. The man eyed Carlisle curiously before looking over at Edward. The masked man's head had been hanging low for the last day as if he'd been sleeping. Edward had indeed offered little company in form of talking as they spent their hours wasting away in their cell. But Carlisle was certain his friend was not sleeping.

The guard felt his curiosity ignite as he stared at the laces of the mask. There had been bets placed amongst them on what hid behind that leather mask. Some said it was the face of the devil, others assured that it was a deformed monstrosity—so twisted that looking at it would drive you mad. One guard jokingly said it was a woman, disguising herself as a man. But one look at Edward's physique sent the other guards snickering. Evelio, the guard on duty, thought that maybe he could get ahead of his friends and win the bet. If he could unmask Edward now, he would know where to place his money. What harm could it do if the Angloan was to be unmasked before trial anyway? The only reason they had not removed his mask yet was that none had dared to get close.

But now… apparently sleeping, Evelio would take his chance. The night was dark and he brought his torch with him, to light up the cell. Carlisle's brows furrowed as he saw the guard unlock the door and step into the cell, heading toward Edward.

"What are you doing?" Carlisle demanded, standing up, pulling at the chains. His heart sped up as the guard's eyes widened, nearing Edward's relaxed form.

"Just a look…" Evelio murmured to himself, his hand reaching for the laces that secured the mask tightly in place.

"No, stop!" Carlisle cried out. "Edward, react god damn it!" he shouted, pulling hard at the restraints, feeling the iron dig into his wrists, opening up two fresh wounds. The already chafed skin required little pressure before the blood started gushing.

Evelio's hand shook as he untied the knot, slowly pulling the laces free. He licked his lips, his eyes widening as he saw Edward's skin at the nape of his neck. He was caught completely off guard as the head swung up, two blazing eyes staring right into his. Evelio's breath caught in his throat as he stared into the endless green depths.

He felt like he was face to face with a ruthless lion, ready to devour him. A deep intake of air was all the warning he received before Edward's forehead came crashing down on his nose, sending the guard spiraling down onto the hay covered floor. A loud shout sounded as his left hand came to grip his nose. Blood gushed out like a red waterfall, the drips quickly tainting the already dirty floor. Painful insults and verbal attacks sounded like a muffled echo through the dungeons, accompanied by Carlisle's astonished laugh and Edward's amused grin.

The other guards soon came to see what the commotion was all about. When they found Evelio nursing his injured nose—blood covering most of his gloved hands, arms and front—they cursed at Edward. One of them quickly went to grab his masked head, dragging it up, baring his throat.

"Let's see how cocky you are without that mask," the guard growled in Italian, motioning for the other guard to remove the piece of leather. Edward tried to struggle free from the iron grip over him, but he never managed. He growled in frustration as two hands impatiently went for the laces, wanting to loosen them up a bit more before removing the hood.

But just as the guard was about to complete his task, a deep voice sounded through the cell behind him. It broke through the dull, muffled filter that seemed to always be present in the dungeon and was loud and clear.

"Stop!" someone commanded in Italian. The guards froze while Edward relaxed. When they turned around they were faced with Jacob Black, standing next to another gentleman. And, there in the background, with his head hung low, was Cardinal Thorpe, his face twisted into a deep frown.

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter down. Big thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter. I will take into account the remarks about some historical aspects of the story and redo some research: greatly appreciated!**

 **I hope you liked this chapter. I always appreciate reviews, they really get me motivated and eager to work even more on this story. I hope everyone's having a nice summer (or winter, depending where in the world you are), it's raining over here in Sweden... which gives me an excuse to sit inside and write more ;)**

 **Cheers!**


	7. Chapter 7

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 7_

 _July 14th, 1480 – Wessport_

The servant wiped away the sweat from Marianne's brow as she bit together her teeth to fight off the pain.

"You need to push, Your Majesty!" said the midwife, standing at the foot of the bed. The queen pushed with all her might, eager for the baby to come out of her womb. Marianne cried out in pain. She had forgotten the pains of pregnancy, it had been decades since given birth to Edmund. Many at court were surprised as the middle aged woman announced her pregnancy. They thought her too old to be able to carry any more children. It was therefore that Rebecca and Magnus Fell became rather dismayed as the announcement of the royal pregnancy was finally revealed.

The country held its breath as they all hoped it would be a son—an heir to the throne.

"Once more, Your Majesty!" the midwife said again. Marianne cried out once more, biting through the tears and pain, wanting to secure the future for her husband's lineage. She pushed with all her might, relief catching in her chest as she heard the cries of a child. The tired woman fell back into the pillows, utterly exhausted from the whole process. She felt that the air entering her lungs was not enough and she momentarily fainted.

"Give her some space!" the midwife cried out as the servants moved away from their queen. "Open a window!" someone shouted.

Philip was pacing back and forth outside of that room, listening to every word he could hear through the doors. A nurse walked through them, holding the child in her arms.

"You have a daughter, Sire," she said. Her face was neutral, awaiting the reaction of the king. Philip took the crying child and looked down on the small form. He had never imagined he could be a father at an advanced age like sixty. His wife had blessed him with that gift. The king smiled down at his daughter, gently kissing her soft forehead, his dark voice surprisingly calming the child. He fell into the habit of rocking her in his arms—a painful memory of Edmund entered his mind.

"And my wife?" he said, worried that he was not yet allowed entry into the chamber. The nurse grew quiet, not quite knowing what to say. "She has momentarily fainted, Your Majesty," she whispered.

"Fainted?!"

"Well, having children at such an age will take its tolls on your wife. But I believe she will be fine," the nurse smiled, walking back to check on the queen. Philip looked around the chamber, staring helplessly at the closed doors. His heart sped up at the thought of losing Marianne in childbirth. Thomas Athar was present, together with some new additions to the court—Lord Anthony Fawkes being one of them.

"Oh cheer up, Sire!" he skidded over, placing a friendly hand on the king's shoulder. "Your wife is a strong northerner, she will be up in a jiffy," Fawkes said in a most cheerful tone. Athar offered some reassuring words as well.

"We have faith in Her Majesty, as should you, Sire." But Philip did not feel reassured then. He held his daughter, waiting for the midwife to come out. Seconds turned to minutes. And when half an hour had passed by, the doors opened.

"The queen asks for you," the old midwife said, smiling at Philip as she did so."

He immediately rushed in through the doors, toward the bed, still holding his crying daughter in his hands.

"Philip!" Marianne said at the sight of her love. His hair was gray now, his trimmed goatee was almost white. There were more wrinkles and faded colors. But the love had not faded. He sat down next to her, taking her hand. Marianne, in her forties, looked faded from the struggles of childbirth. Her lips were pale and her face sweaty as her golden locks clung to around her face.

"We are parents!" Philip exclaimed, holding the child for her to see. Marianne let out a laugh, tears streaming from her eyes.

"Is it a son?" she asked after a while. "Have I given you an heir?" her voice sounded hopeful.

"No, but you have given me a beautiful daughter," Philip smiled. He did not worry if it was a boy or not. He would love the child all the same. Marianne took the baby in her arms, staring at its now calm face.

"What will you name it?" she asked him.

"You will name her. It is your right."

"Marianne stared at the sweet face, drinking in the sight of her little angel. "Victoria," she whispered with love. "She shall be named Victoria."

One of the nurses excused herself, exiting the room to give the king and queen some space—or so she said. Her countenance attracted some suspicion, mostly from Athar himself. As she slithered out of the local room outside of the chamber, he followed her through the halls of the palace until he saw her enter a room at the end of the corridor.

"Magnus?" Athar whispered to himself. The quarters at that end of the palace did indeed house the younger brother of Philip, who had managed to crawl back into the good graces of his brother. Many had protested, but Philip had a weak spot for his younger sibling.

Athar waited a bit before quietly slipping right up against the door, pressing his ear against it.

"…a girl," he heard the muted voice of the nurse speak. There were some sighs of relief that quickly followed.

"Follow this man and he will reward you. He will take you out another way," came the harsh voice of a woman—Rebecca. Athar could not mistake that voice anywhere. He remembered when she had been held in Wessport after some suspected involvement in a theft against the crown. She had never been shown guilty, but Athar had his own suspicions.

A silence followed before someone spoke again. "We were lucky this time. If they have a child again—and it is a son, all our dreams of you taking the throne die with that child," Rebecca sneered.

"And why would not a daughter take the throne as readily?" Magnus retorted.

Athar could hear Rebecca scoff. "Her mother's relatives have lost their holding in society. She would have little backing. If a daughter had a powerful mother, with powerful relatives, it would be another story. If I gave birth to a daughter, she could very well become queen. But as long as Marianne gives birth to girls, we are safe," Rebecca snickered. Athar could not believe what he was hearing—Magnus had aspirations to the throne? And it seemed Rebecca and her family backed him.

 _March 19th, 1520 - Constantinople_

The room was vast and open, rectangular in shape. Halfway through it, three small steps led up to a raised plateau. There a gallery of tall, arched windows opened up to reveal a breathtaking view of the city. In the distance, the vast dome structure rose up to meet the blue sky, the slender pillars around it were like spikes, pointing at the heavens.

Curtains in see-through fabrics danced as the wind gently pushed past the arched windows. The openings were lined with yellow and blue-painted marble. Decorative mosaics graced the lower part of the walls while the upper part saw either fabrics with geometric patterns or a foreign scripture sewn into it. Even the floor saw intricate patterns placed into the stone, where blue and limestone mosaics blended together to form geometrical shapes, complementing the walls. Elegant furniture in dark wood was placed about the room. A sitting area with a low table in copper and colorful cushions surrounding it was on the lower end of the room while the upper part saw a bed, also draped with the ever present see-through fabric. It made the bed appear almost hazy, behind all that cloth. Its lines and shapes were greatly muted as the light blue fabric swayed in the gentle breeze.

In the middle of the room, on a Persian carpet in shades of red and gold, stood Isabella hugging her body, fighting the tears. She had been stripped completely naked. Water had been thrown at her as some harsh-eyed women had scrubbed her clean, not even bothering to respect the privacy of her body. When they saw the healing wounds on her back, they wrinkled their noses.

Once they were done they left her there, cold, shivering and confused. None had bothered to hand her a piece of cloth to cover herself, so Isabella had draped her arms around her bosom, in order to save some of her modesty. Most women left, save the one that had led her to the room, to begin with.

Once the doors shut, she turned to face the confused young woman. The veil was removed, revealing harsh lips and an aquiline nose. The face had seen a few summers already and the deep-set eyes never revealed what the woman thought. It appeared, however, that she took little pity on Isabella's situation.

"I am Melike, head caretaker of this house. While you stay here you will obey my every command. Is that understood?" came the harsh voice. Isabella never answered, refusing to let the woman hear the tremble in her voice.

"His lordship has bestowed you a great honor in taking you here. It is his wish that you be complacent," she continued, slowly pacing the room.

Isabella did not understand the words of the woman; what did she mean by them? She suspected little would be explained if she asked.

"Where are my clothes?" she demanded after a long silence. Zoráida's knife had been hidden in the torn gown; a knife she very much wanted to regain. The woman's face twisted into a frown.

"I never allowed you to ask me questions, girl!" Melike shouted at her. "Know your place or I shall have you whipped!" she said with a twinge of ferocity. Isabella was not surprised by the answer, but she stepped back, nevertheless.

The doors suddenly opened and Melike's eyes widened as someone stepped inside. She gave a graceful bow as Oscar Braun appeared, dressed in strange clothes; a tunic with a long vest over it. He looked less like an Angloan lord and more like one of the wealthier inhabitants of the city.

"That will be all, Melike. Thank you," Braun said stiffly, never taking his eyes off Isabella's naked back as the woman quietly disappeared behind the drapes, and walked out of the room.

Isabella was aware of her vulnerable state as she heard his footsteps nearing. She was not, however, prepared when he draped a thin tunic over her shoulders. Braun turned the young girl to face him, a stiff smile placed on his lips—never quite reaching his eyes.

"Forgive Melike, she can be harsh sometimes, but she is a good servant," Braun offered. Isabella quickly draped the fabric around her, feeling at ease as she was covered.

"Where is my dress?" she asked again, her tone as flat as the expression in her eyes. She was determined to not let any emotion of anger or fear show through.

"It was a torn old rag, I had it thrown away," Braun explained, waving a hand in the air as he walked to the window, taking in the view. Isabella felt her hope dwindle as she thought about Zoráida's knife.

"Why am I here?"

Braun never turned around. He appeared mesmerized by the city below them. A part of him seemed to be reminiscing.

"Have you figured out yet where we are?" He still kept his back to her. Isabella fought hard not to push him over the edge then and there. The fall was high enough to kill him—if he did not land on one of the closer rooftops hugging the tall tower.

"No." She refused to play his game. Isabella was no fool. She was certain Braun was trying to act nice to get her to lower her walls. She would not allow him in.

"Constantinople," was all he said, turning as the word left his lips. "I was the ambassador at the Sultan's court here once, many years ago. Angloa has always kept in good relations with the Ottomans—"

" _Why_ am I here?" Braun halted as Isabella could care less about his past. He seemed unnerved by her rude interruption.

"No reason, my dear. No reason…" he trailed off. Isabella felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise when those eerie words escaped him. She knew he lied, making her believe her fate was worse than she'd imagined.

When Braun saw that she would offer him little conversation he made ready to leave. "This is to be your room now, Miss Swan. I hope you will like it. Melike will tend to your every need if you learn to listen and obey her as well."

He tried to smile, but it came off as unnatural. Something was certain, he wanted to get on her good side.

He moved to the door, moving past the drapes that covered it. Before closing it behind him he turned to her, one last time.

"I have great plans for you, my dear. If you are willing to learn, your future will be a bright one," he explained, his eyes twinkling as the door was shut and locked.

 _March 15th, Rome_

"Release him," said the tall man next to Carlisle. He was past his golden years. But there was a youthful vigor ever present in his bright green eyes. His graying goatee was neatly trimmed and combed in place as he turned to face the guards again.

"Release him." The words sounded more severe now as his voice dropped a few tones. Jacob stared at the Italian guards, fighting the urge to knock them over. The guards did not question the man and did as he bade, releasing the hold they had over Edward.

"Who are you?" one of them asked. Evelio eyed the man suspiciously—he knew he was another Angloan, but he could not tell more. Suddenly, the older gentleman took something out of his doublet, unfolding a parchment, with several seals hanging off from it at the bottom.

"I present my credentials," he said haughtily. He then handed over another document, not as elaborate, hastily written—from the looks of it. Edward and Carlisle remained silent as they saw the scene unfold before them.

The guard took the first document and his eyes bulged as he read it twice. "My lord!" he exclaimed, bowing deeply, giving the parchment back. Evelio had read it as well, he recognized the seal of the _Holy See_.

"As you can see, I am Angloan—as are the men in those cells. They fall under my jurisdiction here and are to be taken to the embassy at once," he declared in a slightly accented Italian.

"Not when your own Cardinal Thorpe had him sent here—"

"Read the other piece of paper." Harsh eyes bore through Evelio. The guard did as the man bade, reading a statement by Thorpe's own hand, declaring that he was dropping the charges against Edward and Jacob. Cardinal Thorpe himself had slipped away unnoticed the moment his presence was no longer required. The older man did not seem to care much, though.

Below that statement, another one, written by the captain of the guard, confirmed that the masked man and his accomplice were in fact not the sought traitors of Angloa. They had thus been held in that prison unjustly. When the guards realized this they all turned pale.

"I believe the _Count of Cadherra_ and _Baron_ Chaeld would appreciate it if you unlocked their handcuffs now," the man spat, offended at the sight of the restrained men. Carlisle showed signs of dehydration, his lips parched and chapped. He bore dark circles under his eyes and he was bleeding from his wrists.

The man glanced over at Edward, taking in the masked enigma for the first time—a man he had heard much about. Edward did not show the same signs of exhaustion and dehydration as Carlisle. But, then again, they could barely see an inch of him due to the mask and clothes covering his body.

Evelio and his friends turned paler as they realized they had titled nobility locked in their dungeon. Only lowly thieves and some beggars would end up there. They had never housed aristocrats before. The Angloans heard the loud gulps of the Italians as they realized their mistake.

The cuffs were swiftly removed. Edward retied the laces of his mask while Carlisle was given water. Edward felt how his body protested—especially his arms. He'd had them at an unnatural angle for so long that when they fell to his side, the blood rushed to them, numbing both limbs. He never voiced his discomfort.

"Follow me, gentlemen," the older man said, showing the way. Before they were away from the guards, he turned to them once more. "The way you have treated these men is outrageous. Do not be surprised if I call for your removal!" he exclaimed, anger both toward the guards, but it was evident that he housed some for Carlisle and Edward as well.

Evelio and his friends all simply nodded, not daring to utter a word. He looked over at the enigmatic masked man, then realizing that he would never discover what hid behind that mask. But, somehow, Evelio did not mind that much. A shiver coursed through him and he looked away, hoping to never see Edward again.

Edward and Carlisle followed the haughty Angloan and Jacob through the narrow corridors of the dungeon. The poorly lit space enveloped them as they walked in silence. The same hollow drop of water seemed to penetrate through the whole area as they reached the surface. The lit torches placed on the humid walls did little to illuminate the dingy walk. They could hear the rattle of chains as they passed more cells. Edward's jaw tensed as he saw the poor souls, rotting away in their prison—there was little he could do for them.

Once they reached the surface, the air of the frisky night hit both men—fresh air they had not felt in days. Carlisle took a deep breath, opening his mouth and closing his eyes as he delighted in the light of the moon, shining its silver beam over his visage.

"Another day in that cell and I would've gone mad," Carlisle sighed to himself. The man who had helped them out turned to face them, furious.

"Be thankful we came when we did. Were it not for Jacob I wonder what nightmare would have happened to you!" he exclaimed once they were farther away from the prison. "I have dealt with a lot of things since arriving here, but trying to rescue two men from being sent to a prison? After having br _oken_ into a _Cardinal's house_?" The more he spoke the more offended he seemed.

Edward stepped forward, not liking the offense in his voice. "I believe introductions are in order," he began. His voice still low and menacing, as if waiting to prowl on the man if he kept pestering him with his outbursts. Jacob was about to step in and explain the situation, but the older man stopped him.

"Not on my part, I have heard all about you, Lord Cullen," he said. There was a slight hint of awe lacing his voice; awe he did not wish to show at that moment. "Your fame precedes you," was all he allowed himself to say.

"You leave me at a disadvantage," Edward rasped. "You know all about me, it seems, yet I have not had the pleasure of even knowing your name," he trailed off.

"I must concur with Lord Cullen. I am also left at a disadvantage," Carlisle added.

The older gentleman took a sharp look at them, almost like he was a father scolding his children. "My name is Theodor Glovendale, a distant cousin of Thomas Athar, of whom I am sure you have heard," he began. "I am the Angloan ambassador here in Rome. I keep relations between our country and His Holiness the Pope," he explained further, taking great pride in his title. "And you men just put me through a lot of difficulties these past few days—nay! A _world_ of difficulty!" he continued, folding his agitated hands behind his back as they would not stop moving while he talked. Edward found it quite amusing, yet, he remained as silent and stoic as ever.

"We are in your debt then, my lord," Carlisle quickly added. Edward merely nodded in unison. But Theodor did not seem pleased with this.

"You will follow me to my personal residence where I wish to have a talk with you. A very _long_ talk."

"I would be most obliged, my lord, but I am afraid we are bound for the east," Edward's dark tone sounded. Theodor would have none of it.

"My boy, I have just saved you from certain public humiliation, to be sure. Now, would you prefer to return to that dungeon to be unmasked and paraded at dawn—following a most assured unjust trial? Or would you rather come home to my residence where we can sit down in peace and sort this whole mess out?" Although none saw it, a quizzical eyebrow rose behind the mask at the appellation "my boy". Edward neared Theodor, his jaw squared, his gaze growing fiercer by the minute.

"I have no time to waste, my lord. It is of utmost importance that I travel east tonight—"

"And how will you travel east, Lord Cullen? By magic? As far as I know, and from what Jacob has told me, you have little to no money left with you—you are stranded here in Rome," Theodor interrupted. "I would think a smart and brilliant strategist like yourself would realize that by now, unless your judgment is clouded by something… or someone."

Silence followed, Edward's wit seemed to have foregone him, for he saw truth in Theodor's words. However, he could not get fast enough to Isabella.

"Follow me and I will arrange accommodations on my personal vessel—to whatever destination you wish." Theodor could not help a small, roguish grin escape. When it seemed as if Edward was still questioning if he should trust the Angloan ambassador, Theodor reached into his cape, pulling out a familiar sword, with an elegant handle that could only belong to one man.

"If you will not take my word, take that of your friend," Theodor said, handing Edward's sword over to him, it had been taken away as they had been captured.

Jacob stepped forward. "I have known Lord Glovendale since childhood, and he has been a close friend of my family for years. I trust him, Edward," he said, sincerity apparent in his otherwise tired features.

Edward stared at the sword and then into the green eyes of Glovendale. It only took him a moment to decide on what to do. He accepted the sword with a slight nod, his arrogant countenance gone as he relaxed a little. Carlisle seemed to relax as well. Glovendale, although still seemingly severe with them, seemed slightly happier now.

"This way," he said as he started walking toward a horse and carriage, parked at the end of the narrow street. There was nothing more to say. Edward only hoped he would not be detained further.

 _March 23rd – Constantinople_

The covers were yanked from her sleeping form as a now familiar voice hissed in her ear.

"Up!" it said, bringing Isabella out of her sleep, ridden with nightmares and into her terrifying reality.

She got up from the comfortable bed, dressed in nothing but a nightgown. The light yellow fabric flowed freely around her naked feet as she walked away from the bed. Immediately, an armless tunic in shades of blue and pink was placed around her shoulders. A bowl with water with fresh rose petals was placed before her to wash her face, followed by a towel, which she used to dry herself with.

Isabella was soon dressed in elaborate tunics. Vibrant colors in silk and brocade hugged her slender form. Her hair was done up, in a style she was still trying to get used to. The headpiece was still uncomfortable for her to wear, and the loose scarf that could be used as a veil to cover her face always irritated her.

After the servants had dressed her—while Melike watched impatiently—the harsh Ottoman woman would have a small table brought in. A woman would arrive shortly, to would tutor Isabella in the local etiquette and manners, as well as the politics and language. It was an arduous process, and Isabella had no idea why this was done. But it being the fourth day, she started realizing they were training her for something. Whenever she tried to ask the other women, they would remain silent or change the subject.

Melike would never leave her side, always present throughout the day. Isabella had not yet been allowed to leave her room. She would gaze out the open windows, look down on the street. Carriages filled with hay would usually pass every day at midday and then three hours later. Five times a day there would be strange calls coming from the peaks around the domed building—Hagia Sophia, as the locals called it.

But, secretly, even if Melike was harsh, even if her tutors were severe and the clothes restricting, Isabella didn't mind. She was happy to be away from Braun, for he had not visited her since their arrival.

The door shut as her tutor left the room, leaving only Isabella and Melike. Both women had learned to be distant. Isabella did everything Melike asked, and Melike did not pester her as much. The only time she had a moment to herself, she would plot an escape route to the harbor. Without them knowing, Isabella had continued hiding things of value in the room. She would sell it for safe passage on a ship going west.

"Sit!" Melike suddenly said, motioning for the low copper brass table, surrounded by cushions. Isabella did as Melike bade and gracefully sat down, as she had been taught. Melike sat at the other end. An elegant silver pot of boiling water had been brought, the steam escaping the small curved nozzle. A small container in clear glass stood next to it.

"Pour me some tea," Melike said, her ever watchful eyes waiting to see what Isabella did. The young woman carelessly took a spoonful of the ground tea leaves and poured them into a small, elegant cup that she placed in front of Melike.

"No!"

"No?"

"Again."

Isabella poured the ground tea back and started over.

"No!" Melike repeated, seeming to enjoy shouting at Isabella. The latter squared her jaw and bit down hard as not to argue back. She started once more, but once again Melike exclaimed "No!" Isabella put the cup down with an earth shattering bang, staring right into Melike's haughty eyes.

"Tell me what you want me to do and I will do it. But do not play games with me!" she practically yelled, her voice was filled with ire and passion. The fake façade of calm and composure threatened to burst like a volcano as Melike teased her.

Melike leaned forward, a deep frown setting on her face, her lips in a thin line. "Again!" she simply said as her mouth curled into a sinister grin. "Or I shall have you whipped." The last words made Isabella's heart skip a beat. The second day there, Melike had indeed been true to her word. Isabella had argued against her and the woman had whipped her herself, in front of the servants. She had taken her down to the courtyard so all could see her humiliation. The pain had gone away quickly but the tears stayed longer.

She stared at the cup and tea, trying to figure out what it was that Melike wanted. Isabella argued to herself that it wasn't the order in which she had started composing the cup—that did not seem to matter much to Melike. The first time she had poured the tea leaves first, the second she had poured the boiling water. The third time, Isabella had put the leaves into the elegant brass pot. She looked at Melike for a long while and then at the messy table in front of them.

Suddenly it hit her like a lightning bolt. For the last few days, the young woman had been pulled in all directions, her mind filled with new knowledge about her new surroundings. She knew they were training her for something, but not what. However, as her tutor would teach her the history or the language, she would also teach her how to make conversation. It didn't matter what she said; her tutor could be talking about the most boring subject in the universe, but the way she delivered it made it always seem interesting. The same went for the other areas of study; her tutor would always stress on Isabella's mode of presentation—it didn't matter how much she actually learned unless she couldn't learn how to coat it in excessive elegance and finery.

And, now, Isabella understood what Melike wanted. She wanted the same refined and elegant presentation as she poured the cup of tea. She was sure this moment was a sort of test, seeing if Isabella understood what they had actually been teaching her all this time. She had to pour the cup of tea in a way that completely captured Melike's attention.

Isabella had no idea what to do. Her face was calm, but inside her heart started beating faster as panic settled in. How could she pour the tea in a way that would please Melike? It was impossible. If it had been a man who did not know her, Isabella was sure she could use the advantage of her striking eyes and feminine figure to win him over. But perhaps this lesson was to teach the young woman to rely on more than just her looks.

She reached for a new cup. The long and slender fingers gently caressed the porcelain, as if Isabella were touching the wings of a butterfly. She did it with utter care and almost compassion. She still felt stiff—the whole ordeal seemed unnatural. So how could she make it genuine? Isabella realized she was pouring the tea to another woman. She had to make Melike feel at home and comfortable at that moment in her presence—however much she might despise her.

So Isabella imagined it was her mother she was serving.

An image of Renée conjured up in her mind; the woman who had always been by her side, the woman she looked up to and missed dearly. A warm feeling of love spread in her heart as she thought of her mother, and it spread to her gestures.

Melike rose an eyebrow as the woman in front of her grew more relaxed and her motions more fluid. But she was caught off guard as—when the cup of tea was offered to her—the young girl gave her a genuine smile, a gentle tug on her lips; the kind of smile one saved for those closest. The Ottoman woman got a warm feeling in her bosom as she reached out to grab the cup of tea—like it was her own offspring handing it to her.

Isabella watched as Melike sipped the tea. The leaves had been in the pot for too long, and would probably make the brew taste bitter, but Melike didn't seem to mind. She put down the porcelain and stayed silent for a moment.

"Good," was all she offered with the same stern expression. It was almost as if she was reluctant to praise Isabella.

Melike then rose from the seat. "Follow me," she said, heading for the door. Isabella stared at the woman in confusion. But upon realizing that she would be able to leave the room, she swiftly put the teapot down and followed suit.

 _March 15th – Rome_

In a dimly lit room, where the light of the moon penetrated the thick curtains, four men sat. A fireplace saw the flames dance as the smoke escaped up the chimney. The warm flickering light clashed with the silver beams of the moon, waltzing together in a strange dance.

The leather couches lined in burgundy fabric seemed dull, as was the decoration in the room. From the paintings to the furnishings and color scheme Edward, Jacob and Carlisle felt as if they had traveled back in time at least a century. The wood was darkened by its usage and the air was as dull as the colors on the walls and furniture. The wooden beams in the roof looked black as they contrasted against the lighter oak floor. A large carpet in the same burgundy tone was sprawled on the floor, looking thin and flimsy. It looked byzantine and Edward wondered if it might have been made before Constantinople fell, some seventy years ago.

There were no tapestries hanging on the wall, instead, rich velvet drapes had been hung, to keep the cold out.

Theodor had been sitting silently in his fauteuil for a long while, examining Edward and Carlisle closely. While Edward had loosely crossed his legs, setting into a comfortable position, Carlisle could not relax under the stern gaze of the ambassador.

"I wonder if you are mad or just foolish," Theodor said in a stern voice after a while.

"I believe a bit of both…," Carlisle excused, rolling his thumbs to seem occupied. Edward never answered.

Theodor slammed both hands hard on the cushioned armrests and got up, the ire seemingly taking hold of him. He clenched his features as he paced about the room—trying to control his frustrations. For such conduct was not befitting a diplomat.

"Do you have any idea of the mess I've had to go through to get you out of that jail?!" he finally shouted, turning to face both men. Carlisle remained silent as he found himself at loss for words. He looked like a child being scolded by his parents. Edward hadn't moved a muscle.

"Had not Jacob come to me I fear you both would've been lost, of course not before being humiliated by those men. It was the request of the Cardinal that you, Lord Cullen, be unmasked at dawn and paraded through the streets of the city before being taken to trial. Can you imagine the humiliation?"

"I cannot," Edward answered dryly. His nonchalant and arrogant air only seemed to further infuriate Theodor.

"What on earth were you thinking? Where, in your right state of mind, did you ever think you could just waltz into the residence of a Cardinal, and an ordained bishop at that?!" the ambassador continued. He ran his fingers through his hair, still amazed that he'd managed to get them out. Were it not for his contacts in the city he did not know what he would've done.

Finally, after having taken the impending scolding, Edward started talking, ready to explain himself.

"Lord Glovendale, Carlisle and I are thankful for you interception. We understand the severity of our situation. But you must understand why we broke in," he stated, his voice dropping a few tones as it became more severe. There was a look in Edward's eyes that made Theodor lose his nerve. He became uncomfortable all of a sudden, standing so close to that masked man. So he inched away, as casually as he could. Edward's presence grew as his sense of urgency became more severe.

"Black did not have time to mention the specifics, only that Cardinal Thorpe might know the whereabouts of someone important to you," he began, swiftly interrupted by Edward.

"Cardinal Thorpe might be involved in the attempted coup against King Jasper Fell that happened a few weeks ago. If that is the case, he is considered a traitor to the crown, and my actions against him were mild in comparison to what they could've been." Before Glovendale could interrupt him, Edward continued, as calm as before. But there seemed to be a storm brewing under that composed exterior.

"I took part in stopping a treasonous plot before it succeeded, Lord Oscar Braun was the mastermind behind it. He must have taken my involvement personal for he swore he would make me pay. I did not think much of it at the time until I returned to my townhouse to find my fiancée gone, most of the maids raped and then killed mercilessly," he said, not sparing on the gory details. Edward wanted to make sure that Glovendale understood the gravity of the situation.

"I assumed her to be kidnapped, of course. So before thinking twice, I went after her. We took a ship to Málaga. Word reached of what had happened in Wessport and by the time we boarded a Spanish Captain's ship, he already saw us as potential suspects. So we fled before arriving in port. We followed the coastline and then took the river up until arriving at the walls of the city. Once finding the residence of Cardinal Thorpe, I decided to go in myself. Carlisle must not have listened to me and kept to the façade of the house. Jacob did, however, and that is why we sit here tonight. If Cardinal Thorpe was involved in the plot to overthrow His Majesty, I deducted that he would hide Lord Braun and Miss Swan. Alas, they were not there and I myself interrogated the Cardinal once I caught him. He eventually gave me a destination and that is where I now plan to go," Edward finished. "That is all I can give you, Lord Glovendale." He sat still and quiet after that, as he usually did, almost asking Theodor to question him. But what he received was a look of astonishment at the incredible tale he had just heard.

"That…is a lot to take in, Cullen," Theodor said after a long silence. The moonbeams now invaded the room, conquering the dying flames of the fireplace as night seemed to conquer the last remnants of a dying sun. The winds gently rattled the windows, wanting to burst into the room. Jacob and Carlisle thought it best not to say much more. Edward had indeed summarized their little adventure perfectly. They themselves were amazed to hear their last few weeks. Their little trip sounded more and more like a knight's tale as he chased his princess, kidnapped by the fierce dragon or the evil black knight.

"You said you would provide a ship for us. I am still waiting for that promise," Edward continued as Theodor had not made a move to speak. They finally understood where the underlying tension was coming from. Edward was eager to depart immediately.

"What you say is grave indeed. I knew Thorpe to be a weasel. Rome seems to show the worst in us, " Theodor pondered. "I mean, he keeps relations with the Volturi."

"Volturi?" asked Carlisle to Jacob in a half-whisper, not wanting to interrupt Theodor.

"A family here in Rome with criminal tendencies. They are very well organized," Jacob answered.

"A mafia?" All he got was a slight nod.

"People best not get involved with them." They broke off their short conversation to listen to Theodor once more.

"I should've seen it coming. If Cardinal Thorpe is involved in a plot to overthrow the king he must be apprehended," Theodor answered.

"Good, then you and your friends can do that. I am to travel east." Edward rose now, walking toward Theodor in a threatening manner. The other stepped back involuntarily, overwhelmed by the fierce presence of the other. Theodor looked away as he met the striking eyes of the masked man.

"I might need you here, your word and presence as Lord Cullen and Count of Cadherra could serve me good against Thorpe," Theodor began, swiftly regretting those words as he saw the reaction they provoked in Edward.

"You gave your word to me that we would sail east. If your honor means anything to you, Lord Glovendale, you will keep that word."

"I did. But opening an inquiry against someone like Thorpe is not easily done. Even less so when you don't know the details."

"My lord," Jacob said, having remained silent for most of their conversation. "I understand you are reluctant to let Lord Cullen go. But both Carlisle and I are witnesses to the promise you made. And just as you promised Edward, he promised Miss Swan that he'd come back to her." He hesitated a bit before continuing. "Frankly, I feel we should get going. Isabella is my friend and I will not see her harmed."

"Your father would not approve, I would—," Glovendale began.

"He rarely approves of anything I do, my lord. You know that as well as I. The coup was successfully dealt with. We can deal with Cardinal Thorpe upon our return. He might even return to Wessport, where we will have an easier time investigating his involvement in all this." Jacob surprisingly sounded like the voice of reason. He spoke comfortably with Lord Glovendale, as he'd known him for a long time.

"Very well. I shall stay true to what I have said. But as soon as you return, send word to me. This matter must be dealt with quickly. If Cardinal Thorpe was involved we must neutralize him or another uprising against the king might be on our hands," Theodor said thoughtfully. He started pacing next to the fire as the flames were almost nothing but dying embers. The beams of the moon had weakened as the night gave way to day. The approach of dawn was already noticeable as the sky brightened.

"I can have a ship prepared for you. In a short few hours it will take you wherever you wish," Theodor said, then called for a man with whom he spoke with for a short few moments. He then walked over to Jacob.

"I suspect you have few belongings with you. A carriage is being readied for you as we speak. It will take you to the port. I cannot go there with you, only give you access to exit the city." He took a big pouch filled with coins and gently put it in Jacob's hand, while the other strongly protested.

"Take this. If your father found out I did nothing to send you back home, he would have my head. The least I can do is to make sure you have a safe journey." He then turned to look at Edward.

"I understand your reluctance to tell me exactly where it is you are going. Relay the destination to the captain then. But know that he will write to me where it is you have gone. That is not too much to ask, I feel," Theodor said harshly.

Edward walked over to Theodor, extending his hand as a gesture of gratitude. "I am in your debt, my lord." His voice was laced with sincerity as the tension went away.

There was now hope in his eyes that Theodor had not seen before. He took in the appearance of the man, dressed in modest finery, a sword clinging to his hip, next to a sharp dagger. The mask seemed less striking now. It was no longer an obstacle, more like a part of a man he started respecting. Theodor did not wish to admit it to himself, but he did indeed respect men like Edward. There might have been a hint of foolishness as he had broken into Thorpe's home, but the man himself was no fool, that much was evident to him. He now started understanding how the masked count had managed to defeat the English in the war.

As the sky turned even lighter, dawn threatened to spill over the horizon, bringing the rays of the sun. Theodor took the gloved hand, a small smile escaped him. "That knowledge pleases me, for then you finally understand what I have done for you," he teased, a charming grin spreading on his face. The angry frown that had been ever present before was finally gone as the severity of the situation had lessened.

Theodor turned to Jacob. "I will send word to your father that you are well, last I saw you. He will want to know as much." Jacob did not respond at first, but he could feel the curious eyes of Carlisle on his neck while he could almost sense Edward's eyebrow raise.

"We all are in your debt, Glovendale," Jacob nodded, his countenance stiff at the mention of his father. But it quickly dispersed as his genuine gratitude toward the man in front of him shone through. Carlisle went to give the man some words of gratitude as well while a servant went to announce that the carriage was ready for departure.

Glovendale followed them down to the courtyard of his fine mansion, making sure they got safely into the carriage. He had sent some trunks of clothes and more weapons with them—hastily gathered as they had no time to spare. Other provisions had been provided as well.

"Lord Cullen," he said as Edward was the last to enter the carriage. Edward turned to face him. "If you find your fiancée, you will no doubt find Lord Braun," he continued, a sense of urgency now crept into his voice. At the mention of Braun, Edward's mouth turned into a thin line as his eyes seemed to turn a shade darker.

"Do not kill him, if you can." The words were surprising.

"He is a traitor and he took Isab—, Miss Swan. I have many reasons to behead him the moment I find him," Edward said in contained fury. He tried to remain civil as he spoke with Glovendale. But he found that controlling his anger was harder the more days he spent away from Isabella.

"Lord Braun might have more information regarding people like Cardinal Thorpe. I know you wish to end his life, as is your right. But he could give us names we do not yet know. A plot against the king is a serious thing, we must eradicate all who were involved to be sure that it does not resurface." Glovendale spoke with the voice of reason while Edward realized that he was still blinded by anger and slight despair.

"It seems you are right once more, my lord," Edward confessed after a while. For the first time, he opened up, showing the slightly vulnerable state he actually found himself in.

"It takes a great man to realize when he is wrong. For then he learns from it," Glovendale spoke. His words of wisdom reminded Edward of Athar and for the first time, he could see the resemblance. Perhaps not in looks but in character. Although Athar was more resigned and less fierce than Glovendale, both felt as wise and intelligent. "And when he learns from those mistakes he can become even greater. I expect I will hear more from the Count of Cadherra, Edward Cullen in the future," Theodor blinked.

"Your counsel is wise. There should be more men like you, my lord," Edward answered. They both shook hands once more as he entered the carriage. The driver set the horses in motion and in the flick of a whip they were on their way just as the first rays of the sun stretched over the horizon.

Glovendale looked at the carriage as it disappeared behind the gate, a small smile gracing his lips. His manservant, Bellini, came to stand next to him, a questioning look spreading on his face.

"For having caused you a world of troubles you seem very happy with that trio, especially the masked man," he mused. He was amused mainly that his master had gone from running around the whole of Rome—swearing and cursing the name of Cullen for the past two days to actually seeming to respect the man.

"There is something about him that I cannot quite put my finger on, Bellini. But I am sure that it will surface one day," Glovendale responded.

"Something bad?"

"No, quite the opposite," Theodor stated, the golden sunbeams touching his face. The older man sighed to himself and looked over at Bellini. "You know, I should probably go and rest. I am getting too old for these things," he complained, but the smile was ever present. It grew wider as he once more entered his house, slightly jealous that he could not also accompany the young men on their adventure.

* * *

 **A/N: Excuse the slight delay of the chapter. I've been going over the first fic, fixing and correcting faults. Sometimes the plotline is so intricate that it even gets me confused haha-it's a lot to keep an eye on, but I find it a nice challenge. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please leave a review if you did!**

 **Cheers!**


	8. Chapter 8

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 8_

 _April 19th, 1484 – Wessport_

It felt strange, for the old couple, that their lives were once more filled with laughs and giggles of a child. Marianne and Philip settled into a practiced rhythm, enjoying spending time with their daughter. Rebecca and Magnus were once more fully integrated into court, having been forgiven by the king. Rebecca took a keen interest in the young princess, and soon Marianne grew warm toward the much younger woman. She would spend almost every waking moment in the presence of Victoria Fell, princess of Angloa.

Victoria had much fire in her, and she was very demanding. But her father liked that spirit and he encouraged it.

It was afternoon, and the young princess was free from her lessons. She wanted nothing else but to play with her aunt, Rebecca. And as usual, Rebecca always waited for her in her chamber.

"Rebecca!" the young girl exclaimed as she saw her aunt. The older woman embraced the young girl, smiling gently as she took her in her arms.

"We shall take a stroll in the gardens, and you can tell me all about what you have learned today," Rebecca cooed to the girl.

"Is uncle Magnus coming too?" Victoria asked, hopeful.

"I am afraid your uncle had to go away up north, for some boring encounter with my own uncles. My dear, it is just you and I today," Rebecca said, holding the hand of the young girl as they walked toward the gardens. The weather was warmer now as spring was in full bloom. The flowers had started emerging from the ground, waking after the cold winter. Victoria was eager to pluck some and give them to her mother.

"Maybe your father could take you next time to the gardens," Rebecca said carefully. Victoria sneered slightly—wrinkling her nose.

"Father never has time. He is an important man," Victoria said, repeating what most people would say to her as they spoke of Philip.

"Oh, but every parent should have time for their child," Rebecca said, tucking a stray red lock behind her ear in the gallery leading to the gardens.

Victoria's eyes widened. "Is that… true? Do everyone else's parents have time for their children?" she asked carefully.

"But of course. My father would tuck me in each night and kiss me goodnight as well," Rebecca lied. A small smirk spread on her face as she watched the young princess frown.

"Papa never tucks me in," she whispered.

Rebecca kneeled next to her, stroking her hair. "But I do, my sweet. And your mother…when she has time. I am surprised Marianne does not spend more time with you. She is not as occupied as your father—." Victoria started crying as she felt suddenly neglected by her parents.

"Oh no, my little princess," Rebecca cooed, hugging her niece. She rocked her gently back and forth. "You must not blame your parents, they are king and queen—it is their duty to rule this country. The people come before anything else."

"I wish they were not king and queen then!" Victoria exclaimed, her tiny hands forming into small fists.

Both were unaware as someone watched from the other side of the gallery. Athar grew grim at what he saw. The scene started being more and more common. Rebecca Fell would soon have the child within her grasp, and there was little he could do. It was hard for Philip to officially forbid Rebecca to visit Victoria when the princess herself would ask for her aunt. And any attempt at keeping her at bay would arise unwanted gossip at court.

He doubled back, not able to watch helplessly as the young princess was slowly being corrupted, brainwashed to wish her parents off the throne—and at such a young age.

But Athar had his own worries to care for. His wife had miscarried…again. It had started to take a toll on her, and on him as well. Losing an unborn child was hard, almost as hard as losing a born child.

 _April 30th, 1484 – Wessport_

Marianne smirked at Philip. "You guessed wrong again!" she teased as they lay in the comforts of their bed. Philip gave off a deep chuckle.

"You would play with an old man? I have almost seen seventy winters, you know," he replied.

"Really?" Marianne said, acting surprised. "Is it not the husband who should be comforting the wife as she worries about aging?" she said, giving him a playful push on the shoulder.

"I am young at heart," he quipped, deepening the embrace he had over her. Marianne giggled as he pulled his much younger wife closer.

"And in other things too, it seems," she said enigmatically. Philip frowned, not knowing what she meant. Until he started placing the pieces together.

"You are with child?" he exclaimed. "Again?!" pure joy overtook his features as he looked at her belly. For the first time, he noticed how much fuller it was through the thin chemise. "How long?"

"This autumn," she smiled. But suddenly Philip grew subdued again.

"Did not the midwife say that you could not have any more children?"

"I guess she was wrong. Yet, you still seem worried."

"You are older now, giving birth to Victoria took its toll on you. I am just afraid that this will be a hard birth for you as well," he sighed. Marianne took his face between her hands and kissed him gently on the lips.

"I know my own body, and I have faith in it. It will not fail me," she smirked. "Besides, you are the old one. Worry about yourself, grandfather, before you worry about me!" she teased. Philip let out another chuckle before he grabbed her, straddling her and showering her with kisses.

 _June 10th, 1484 – Wessport_

Another summer was marking its way through the court of Wessport. When the queen finally started showing signs of pregnancy, her obvious condition was finally confirmed. She would parade her state, proud of being pregnant. This time, she hoped for a son—they all did.

Victoria had been happy at first, she had always wished for a sibling, for she dearly wished someone to play with.

But as Rebecca slowly tainted her opinion, the young princess soon detested her future sibling. Philip and Marianne did not know where this anger stemmed from, and the aging king grew worried that their young daughter was quickly growing out of their grasp. He started putting time aside to spend it with her, for he dearly loved his child. Victoria started appreciating the time spent with her father. Athar managed to distance the princess from Rebecca, thankful that he had gotten Victoria away from that woman quickly.

But Rebecca was not finished. She and Magnus tried hopelessly to have a child, but to no avail. It seemed luck was not on their side. She grew bitterer as she thought herself barren. Plots of how to overthrow the king started becoming a part of her daily thoughts. She could not stand to see the happy family, she was disgusted that Marianne and Philip could still produce children, at such ages.

She found herself in her chamber, sitting in her morning robe, staring out through the window, holding her stomach. All she thought was that her womb was dried out, perhaps never fully working after the birth of their daughter, which they had lost so many years ago. She thought that her daughter would have been a beautiful grown woman by now, winning the hearts of all men at court.

"I worry whenever you get that look in your eye," Magnus whispered in her ear as he came to sit next to her. Rebecca quickly removed her hands from her stomach and met his inquisitive orbs.

"I was just thinking," she responded. Her voice was more subdued than usual.

"Of Jane?"

"Our little Jane," Rebecca whispered, afraid her voice would break otherwise. But she soon pushed away the pain and focused on the present. "If Marianne gives birth to a son, all your dreams of becoming king die with him," she said, malice lacing her voice.

"And what are we to do with that? We might not be as lucky this time," Magnus said, gritting his teeth at the prospect.

When the palace had been built, Philip had made sure that passageways be built into the walls—secret ways that would lead a threatened noble or king out of the palace, if ever need be. Athar and Fawkes had happened upon them one day, both soon setting out to search the grounds for more hidden panels and ways. So when Athar found one that led directly to Magnus and Rebecca's chambers, he set one of his most trusted guard to keep an eye on them.

The guard started to understand why Athar wanted to hear everything they said—the couple was starting to head in a direction that spelled treason to him.

"We could terminate the pregnancy, without killing the queen," Rebecca offered in such a cold voice that it sent shivers down both Magnus' and the guard's spines.

"You mean poison, don't you," Magnus stated after a while. He was familiar by now with his wife's cruel ways. Yet, he did nothing to stop them. He had become so blinded to her that he never truly saw her wickedness.

"I already have it in my possession. If we feed it to Marianne over a period of several weeks, she will not be able to keep the child in. It will be a premature birth which will kill the infant."

The guard held his breath at those words. But he was more worried at what Magnus would answer. He would lose all respect of the prince if he agreed on Rebecca's wishes.

"I think we could find another way, my sweet," Magnus said in an insecure voice. "I cannot have the death of an infant on my conscience."

"Because you are weak!" Rebecca suddenly snapped, her fierceness and anger quickly igniting. They argued a while longer before Rebecca promised she would not poison the queen.

The guard had heard enough, he had to report to Athar and tell him what he had just witnessed.

* * *

 _March 27th, 1520 – Constantinople_

Isabella gave a frustrated sigh as the gentle breeze tugged at the veil that covered her face from her nose down. She followed Melike as they took a turn about the gallery. But the young woman did not complain, for she dearly loved gracing the courtyard, taking in the scent of the flowers and trail about the strange pillars that help up the second level of the house. The tower—where her room was—loomed over, ever reminding her that she had to go back to her cage.

Whenever they walked Melike would give crude remarks on Isabella's posture. Every day, after her lessons, Melike would let her take a stroll about the courtyard. After they would return to her room, to the moment Isabella dreaded the most; the moment she had to serve her tea.

She had served Melike tea just like the first day. But the woman was not pleased with that anymore, for the trick had grown old and boring. Isabella understood that she had to serve it in a new way. So whenever she poured the brew into the cup, she conjured up the image of someone dear to her. Today that someone was her father.

As Isabella poured the contents, her face twisted in pain as she remembered her father. Melike felt the pain of the young woman in front of her.

"No!" she exclaimed. Isabella got startled and dropped the pot, the ceramic clinked against the brass table before it broke against the hard surface, spilling hot water everywhere. Her eyes, brimming with tears, looked up at Melike questioningly.

"Never show pain, for it is an emotion that does not belong here," Melike scolded. She ignored the broken pot, still maintaining eye contact with Isabella.

"If you told me why we are doing these exercises, why I am being taught in the ways of eating, sitting, standing and even speaking—it would be easier for me to adapt," Isabella explained, trying to keep her voice as gentle and contained as she could.

Melike eyed her for a while, a long moment passed where the air seemed thick enough to cut with a butter knife. "Did you have someone, before coming here?" The question felt personal and invasive.

"Answer me." Melike's eyes squinted, making the crow's feet around her orbs more prominent.

"I did, a fiancé that I learned to care for," she whispered. She had cared—and still did—for Edward. She felt the judging eyes of the other woman on her.

"It was more than caring, for your eyes give it away," Melike's voice turned softer, almost mocking.

"What would you know of that?!" Isabella got angry, gritting her teeth.

"I will give you some advice, it is not a command you must follow. But if you truly wish to surpass everyone here and live you will do well in taking heed of my words. Forget him, forget he ever existed and you will survive," Melike said, her voice neutral as she spoke.

"Forget him?" Isabella could not believe what she was hearing.

"Cast away your old life and accept the one you've got." Melike's words were the harsh reality Isabella now found herself in. Alas, she knew they were true.

"And what is it I must survive?"

"Lord Braun will tell you in due time," Melike simply answered.

"And when will I see him?" Isabella demanded, setting back into old habits. The tone of her voice made Melike frown.

"You are not to demand anything from anyone here. Know your place, girl!" The young woman's hands turned into fists, her knuckles turned white as she squeezed them shut.

"Forgive me. When will he grace me with his presence?" She had almost wanted to say it sarcastically, but it came off as earnest. Melike seemed pleased.

"Once you are ready."

She wondered when that would ever be. Melike agreed she had shown promise, but she seemed almost reluctant to acknowledge that her time was nigh. Isabella was sure that she could coax Braun to tell her the truth if she ever got the chance.

Almost as if reading her mind, Melike spoke once more. "You must learn to use your wit, and not just your looks, or you will get nowhere in life," she scolded.

"Is that what Lord Braun wants?" she asked. Isabella had little wish to see him, for his presence disgusted and offset her. Yet, she needed to know what his plan for her was. Alas, she could only see the killer of Edward when she saw him. But Braun didn't need to know that.

"You are never to meddle in his affairs or ask such questions. Is that clear?" Melike said harshly. Isabella nodded reluctantly. But she understood something. If she could learn what Melike was teaching, she could use that as an advantage in her next confrontation with Braun. She would have more knowledge and more wit against him.

A servant had just cleaned up the table and brought a new pot of steaming hot water. Melike looked down at the pot and then at Isabella.

"Again!" she demanded. And so, Isabella started pouring the cup once more for the Ottoman woman.

 _March 19th – Mediterranean Sea_

They were once more on a ship, their destination was Constantinople this time. Jacob spent his days reading or staring at the horizon, fighting nausea as best as he could. Carlisle spent his days mostly seasick as well while Edward would retire to his private chambers, at the back of the ship. There—where big windows would open up, revealing the swaying sea, meeting a clear blue sky—he would unmask and go over the plans of the city.

He was returning to a place he had not been in years. He had lived there with Sofia a while, only a teenager as they had started traveling back from the Far East. They had stayed a few years before the gypsy woman decided to move on. Edward felt that the city had been where he had started transitioning from being a boy to being a young man.

He stared down at his mask. So many things he'd rather forget had happened there. It was there he had been obligated to start wearing the constricting mask.

Edward remembered it as if it were yesterday. After living years up in the mountains, in a remote area of the Ming kingdom, they had decided to leave the temple and travel west. It had been Edward's wish to return back, to see his home country once more. Sofia had refused at first, but she had been lenient after he had begged her. The fact was that she missed the streets of her old town, Seville. And so they had packed, traveling down to Constantinople, a city that had fallen to the Ottomans more than fifty years prior.

He had marveled in the strangeness of the capital, of the exotic smells, sights, and sounds. Edward had walked around with an open mouth not able to contain himself. Sofia made him wear a hood at all times, afraid that his face would be seen.

He did not understand, not then; what reactions his face could provoke. But it did not take long before he foolishly showed it to someone.

Edward cast away the mask, growing bitter at the memory of that woman. He could still hear her laughs as she mocked him. But as she looked closer her face had turned paler.

A knock sounded on the door. He quickly retrieved the mask and put it back on, not bothering to tie the laces.

"Yes?" he said aloud.

"May I come in?" It was Carlisle.

"Yes."

The rattle of a doorknob was followed by the piece of wood swinging open. He heard Carlisle's footsteps as he entered his cabin. Carlisle went to a chair placed close to the big bed. He sank down in it, his face slightly pale and clammy. He felt as if he had caught Edward off guard.

"I take it this trip does not agree with you," Edward chuckled at the sight of his friend.

"This blasted boat will not stop rocking. It will be the death of me." He carried a bucket with him, just in case. It seemed his sea legs had been left behind in Rome.

"Did you want something other than complaining to me?" Edward asked as he leaned back on the bed, propped up against the pillows, crossing one leg over the other. Carlisle would have taken offense at those words if he were not so nauseous.

"The captain says we have to dock at the nearest port. We are low on food and water, as we made a hasty departure from Civitavecchia.

"And where do we dock?"

"The closest port is Syracuse, probably a day and a half from here—a day if the winds are in our favor. The next port would be across the Ionian Sea, in Greece."

"It seems we have little choice then. As long as we get our provisions fast and are in and out of the port within the same day," Edward said.

Carlisle nodded, a pensive expression spreading on his face as he regarded Edward's mask. "I will relay this to the captain then," he started, but Edward got up before he could rise from the chair.

"No, you should stay and rest, Carlisle. You look about ready to empty your guts. I will go speak with him."

Carlisle stared at the untied laces of Edward's mask. "I did bother you before entering, didn't I?" he stated as he pointed at the mask. Edward looked away, quickly tying the laces of the leather helm.

"No," he answered curtly.

"We have known each other for years now. Don't you think it's time you set vain things like these aside? You do know that neither I nor Jacob care what hides underneath that mask, right?"

A dry chuckle followed. "Do not speak of things you don't know, Carlisle. And do not speak of this again." His tone was harsh, a friendly warning that most men would not get. But Carlisle was a close confidant, a true friend to Edward.

Alas, Carlisle would not shove this aside once more. When they had stepped onto Italian soil, outside of the Roman gates, he had seen Edward starting to remove the mask. Cullen probably thought they were all asleep, but Carlisle was not at that time. He had looked away out of respect, but it had saddened him that Edward would wait so long for relief of his prison. He had heard a sigh of relief as the mask came off.

"Why? Why do you hide your face? You should have nothing to be ashamed of, for being disfigured is not your fault! No one would look down on you. You know the respect you command, Edward! They would respect you even more if you dared to bare your face."

"Leave it—"

Carlisle rose from the chair. He was still pale, but a gust of anger spread on his features. It seemed this issue had been bothering him for quite some time.

"Is it too much to ask you to trust me? Or to trust Jacob? We placed all of our faith in you, following you as far as we have. Do you not think we have a right to know? To see?"

"Am I just another curious endeavor of yours?!"

"Of course not. I just think it has gone far enough. And what of Isabella? Have you even considered showing her? Will you just swoop in, save her and wed her—without letting the poor girl ever see your face?"

"No, one day I will. But now…" Edward had no words as he clenched his fists in defeat. "I will not remove this mask—"

"Why?"

"Because I am afraid!" Edward finally shouted at the top of his lungs, turning to stare madly into Carlisle's eyes. His words quickly silenced both of them. Edward regained his composure and cursed inwardly at such a display of weakness.

"It is okay to be afraid, Edward. We all are at times," Carlisle answered, sinking down into his seat as nausea grew.

Edward moved toward the window, wanting to ignore the direction of the conversation. "You don't understand, Carlisle." Defeat laced his voice as he stared at the swaying ocean. Something gripped at his heart as he thought of Isabella and what her reaction to his face would be.

"Maybe I would if you showed me? If you trusted in me?" Those were genuine words from a genuine friend. Yet Edward had difficulty breaking the final barrier of their friendship, which was his mask.

"If any of you have any sort of intelligence, you would all rapidly leave my side the moment you saw my bare face," he mumbled to himself. His breath fogged up the glass of the window.

"It cannot be worse than what I have heard some of the maids at Adelton Hall whisper," Carlisle joked, trying to lighten the mood. "Surely you are not cursed, as they say?" he chuckled. The merriment in his voice caused a slight chuckle in Edward too but his was sadder.

"Maybe I am," he whispered to himself, not loud enough for Carlisle to hear.

He turned from the window, staring at the seasick man. "I will go speak with the captain," he finally said. Carlisle gave up, realizing they were back to square one. His lips thinned as Edward shut the door behind him. It hurt Carlisle to see his friend suffer in a prison he had made for himself. Perhaps one day Edward would muster up the courage and show his true self, ignoring the scars that undoubtedly touched his features.

 _March 30th – Constantinople_

They were strolling in the courtyard once more. Melike still insisted that Isabella was not ready for the world outside of the tower. She sulked in silence, cursing the veil that she had to wear across her face.

Suddenly, the tall doors to the street opened up. A palanquin was just touching ground when Braun himself exited it. Another man shortly followed him, dressed in riches and fineries. They spoke rapidly in Ottoman Turkish, a language Isabella's tutors had tried hard to wire into her brain. She was amazed as she understood most of the conversation.

"…very sick. He does not let many know of this and tries to hold on to power. But his son, Suleiman, keeps frequenting the royal palace more often now. I suspect he knows," the Ottoman said in Braun's direction. Isabella had no idea of just whom they were talking. She could only understand slight pieces of their conversation. She discreetly tried to inch closer to them, unnoticed.

"If his son does indeed take the throne soon, it might bode well for us. God knows Selim can be brash. I have lost count of how many viziers he has executed up until this point," Braun said, never seeing Isabella as she kept to the shadows of the gallery. The young woman did not understand what exactly it was that she was hearing. But she understood it was of great importance. She retired back into the shadows, much like Edward would have done, and started processing the words and names.

Melike soon found her, sitting on a stone bench with a pensive look in her chocolate eyes. "You rest when gracing the courtyard? I believe you have had quite enough for today. It is time for your lesson," she snickered, demanding Isabella to follow her. The young woman did so without complaining, glad to be able to remove the veil from her face.

Once her tutor came to her room—always the same woman—Melike walked out, leaving the young woman to learn in peace. As soon as the old Ottoman woman was outside, Isabella turned to her teacher.

"Who are Selim and Suleiman?" she demanded with little tact. The teacher was caught off guard as her eyebrows rose to meet her hairline.

"My dear," she said, plastering a rehearsed smile on her neutral face. "Where did you hear those names?" she asked carefully. But Isabella took heed in trusting the woman. Strangely, she could hear Melike's demanding voice shouting at the back of her head _"You think a westerner like you can demand questions like these without arising suspicion? How pathetic of you!"_

"Oh, I just heard some maids mentioning those names with great awe in their voice this morning as they cleaned my room and change my linens," she lied. Isabella was surprised at how easy the lie came out of her mouth. It was strangely different to when she had tried to coax Edward to bring her to Wessport. She had felt clumsy and afraid then, now she just spoke as if it were the truth she was telling. The tutor narrowed her eyes in suspicion at first.

"There was mention of someone being rather handsome," she said in a pondering voice. "But then again my Turkish is not yet worthy, so I might have misinterpreted the whole conversation," she excused. Suddenly, Isabella looked rather guilty. "I know it was wrong of me to listen in on their conversation. But I do believe the maids are not aware that I am learning their language. It was not their fault, madam," she said, looking as innocent as she could. The trick seemed to work its charm for the tutor instantly relaxed and a smile plastered on to her narrow face.

"It is quite alright. Being curious is not befitting a young woman as yourself. You should only strive to please, my dear, and be gracious when doing so. But asking about our Sultan and wanting to know more about him and his son is wonderful, I think. His Majesty Selim is the current Sultan, you see." When Isabella seemed confused at the words, the tutor quickly corrected herself.

"A Sultan is much like what you would call a king. But, of course, our Sultan is much greater than any of your western kings," she offered. Isabella had to fight hard to scoff at the blatant propaganda. Instead, she stared back in awe, seemingly brainwashed.

"I see, how interesting," she said in a truthful voice. "And then Suleiman must be the prince, right?" The tutor smiled and nodded. However, she felt as if having shared too much and soon excused herself.

Melike soon entered in the tutor's place, taking in the stifled expression on Isabella's face. "It seems you are thinking hard about something," Melike said nonchalantly. "Of something you should not be thinking."

"Am I to meet the Sultan or his son?"

"Hope, for your sake, that it ends up that way," Melike answered brusquely. Isabella felt that she should have broken down crying, or loudly protested. But all she could manage was a dry chuckle.

"If Braun thinks he can use me to gain the favor of the Sultan, he is direly mistaken," she spat. "And if I do gain the favor of the Sultan, I will not lift a finger to keep loyal to a man who murdered my fiancé," she said, crossing her arms. Isabella suddenly started realizing the true power she had over Braun.

"A lion does not realize how powerful it is until its first kill," Melike said, speaking in riddle. "Do you really think Braun would allow you that power? He knows your hatred of him, he is not an idiot."

"I wish to speak with Braun," Isabella scoffed, ready to scream at his face and take pleasure in making him realize that she would not bend to his will.

But Melike only laughed at her. "You have no power yet, you fool. Have you yet seen the Sultan or his son? No. Let me tell you what will happen. If you met Lord Braun now he will send you to the highest bidder—a high lord's harem in the best scenario, a whorehouse in the worst. But if you stay patient, and learn to respect his lordship and learn to show your loyalty he will strive to send you directly to the Sultan's harem. There are hopes that you will eventually become a _valide sultan,_ which you will not in your current state. If he realizes you would cast him away the moment you grabbed power he would crush you like a fly, which is more than what you deserve," Melike mused, takin pleasure in seeing defeat touch Isabella's face.

"So no, you are not yet ready to meet Braun. I will say when you are," Melike finally answered. "Arrogance will not get you far in life."

"It made my fiancé a General, and then a Count," Isabella retorted.

"I suspect it was just more than arrogance. I am certain it was the arrogance that killed him," Melike teased. But Isabella never offered her any tears of sorrow, nor words of malice.

She simply sat down once more, finally understanding exactly what she now needed to do. "What is the today's lesson?" she finally asked, mustering up the remaining dignity she felt she had. Her words provoked a slight frown from Melike. The older woman had hoped for a tantrum, but all she got was a silent and composed young lady.

 _March 26th – Aegean Sea, Coast of Greece_

The ship didn't seem to move fast enough for Edward. As they had left the Italian peninsula and Sicily behind them, they were now off the coast of the Ottoman Empire, for Greece was one of its greater provinces.

The captain of the ship, Lorenzo, came to stand next to Edward. "We have no real authority to enter the port of the capital as we are not there for diplomatic reasons nor trade. It would, therefore, be illegal to enter there and the consequences could be dire. We will sail past Çanakkale during the night tomorrow, hopefully, any moonlight will be obscured by the clouds. I can drop you off up the coastline from Constantinople. We will then wait four days for you. If you and your friends cannot return in that amount of time, we will not wait and set sail back to Rome. It could be dangerous if we were spotted by the Ottomans, my lord," the Italian said direly.

Edward did not like the odds. Four days would not be much time, but it was all the time he had, so he had to make use of it.

"I understand, Captain. I would not also like to put the lives of my men at risk in a situation like this one," he said, looking at Carlisle who sat at the other end of the boat, looking at the skyline. They had scarcely spoken since Carlisle had asked to see Edward unmasked.

Lorenzo nodded and went back to study the maps of the area. Jacob soon joined Edward and stared into the distance. "I hope you have a plan for when we arrive."

"I know my way around the city," Edward said, his jaw clenched as he thought back to those memories.

"Have you been there before?" Jacob asked.

Edward merely nodded. "It was a long time ago." He had had both happy and heartbreaking moments in that old city.

"You and Carlisle should speak. Behaving in such a petty way is not usual for either of you," Jacob tsked. Edward chuckled as the youngest of them stepped forth as the voice of reason.

"He can come and speak with me whenever he chooses," Edward answered arrogantly.

"Sometimes you are too proud, my friend," Jacob muttered.

One look his way was all it took to silence Jacob. Although he did not find the masked man as intimidating as before, he still kept wary and respected him.

"Carlisle told me what he had requested of you."

"It is something I cannot give neither him nor you," Edward rasped.

"I will not ask such a thing of you. But you shouldn't give the same answer to Isabella. There will come a day when she will want to see the man underneath that mask." Jacob patted Edward's shoulder, understanding the dilemma he was faced with. "And that day might be sooner than you think."

* * *

 **A/N: A _valide sultan_ is a title held by the legal mother of the ruling sultan. I made some research into Ottoman succession, it is very different to how the European kings would pass on their crown. I suggest you look it up! :) **

**Please leave a review if you liked this chapter. Thanks for reading it :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 9_

 _July 30th, 1484 – Wessport_

"You realize you are accusing my own brother of plotting against my family, right?" came the harsh voice of the king as he sat on his throne. Lord Athar stood there, together with the guardsman who had heard everything. They had not yet found enough evidence to prove what either Magnus or Rebecca had said. But the lord did not wish to wait any longer, afraid that something might happen as he kept his silence.

"I have no proof, Sire. But I felt it best to warn you about Rebecca Fell. She seems determined to put her husband on the throne, and with him there she would rule Angloa, through a puppet king," Athar responded as respectfully as he could.

Philip massaged his temples at the growing headache. "I suppose you would want Victoria away from Rebecca Fell then as well. For they seem to be getting along quite nicely again," he said.

"There is no doubt in my mind that Lady Rebecca is poisoning your daughter against you. The faster you remove her from court, the better."

"I cannot, Thomas. Rebecca's family is powerful. Just casting her out would draw their attention toward me, it could end in a bad way."

Athar started losing hope as he felt trapped by the confinements of local politics. "Then send your wife away from court—somewhere Rebecca cannot touch her."

Philip sighed once more. "I am getting too old for this," he muttered. He felt only a fraction of himself—his younger self, was lost in the folds of time. "But I will follow your advice, as I have always done."

 _September 1st, 1484 – Adelton Hall_

Marianne walked with arduous steps. Her belly weighed her down, making the ache in her spine greater than ever before—and she still had less than a month of torture to endure. The fact was that the last few days had been particularly hard on her as she had felt more tired than usual. But she kept her spirits up—Philip was to visit her within the week. He had sent her away from court, saying how she would benefit from rest and relaxation—away from all the worrying politics.

"Your Majesty, you should not be walking around in your condition!" came the soft Spanish voice of Lord Swan, followed by his young son, Charles Swan.

"Walking helps calm me, my lord," the queen excused, trying to mask the strain in her voice. She had been feeling unwell for the past few days and hoped that a small stroll might rise her spirits as it usually did.

The ladies that accompanied her looked down at the stone floor in shame. "We tried to stop her, my lord, but she will not listen to us," one of them dared.

Marianne gave out a gentle laugh, ignoring the sharp unusual pains in her stomach that had plagued her for the last few hours. But they seemed more severe now, only growing.

"Walking is good…for my condition—" her eyes suddenly clouded as she felt faint, the sharp pains intensifying. "I feel faint," she suddenly exclaimed, losing her balance. Lord Swan quickly grabbed her in his arms.

"I will take you to your chambers, Your Majesty," he said, moving to carry her.

Marianne started panicking as something felt off. She was not supposed to feel these sharp pains yet. "Something is wrong!" she whispered in a terrified manner.

The ladies looked at each other in confusion while Swan rushed her to her room. "Call the midwife, don't just stand there like fools!" he shouted as he felt Marianne's rugged breath against his neck.

One of the ladies in waiting ran to get the midwife while the rest waited. Swan's own wife, Catherine, was among the ladies who ran after her queen.

Marianne was put in her bed as sweat perspired from her brow. "Bring some water," Catherine commanded as she went to comfort the worried queen. "All will be alright, Your Majesty!" she consoled the middle aged woman, tears streaming down her face.

In what seemed like hours, the midwife finally appeared, short of breath and clutching her side. "Make way!" she demanded as she squeezed through the ladies in waiting and Swan. "You," she said, pointing at the Spaniard. "Outside." He did as she bade, giving his wife a small peck on the cheek.

After the man was out of the room, she started ordering people around, taking care of the queen as best as she could.

"M-my husband," Marianne said in between the bursts of pain. "I need to see him!"

"You husband should be here within a few days," Catherine said, gently dabbing her forehead with a cooled cloth. Marianne felt despair. She felt alone—with people she did not really know. She wanted the comfort of her husband by her side.

The midwife looked at the woman with worry. She had examined her thoroughly and Marianne was indeed going into labor. "If the child wants to come out, then there is little we can do to stop it. We need to help it instead."

They waited a bit more until the contractions came closer and closer to each other. Marianne had never before felt such an intense pain in her life, but she followed the midwife's voice obediently, keen on delivering a healthy child into the world.

Night fell and the queen was still struggling. Catherine came to meet her husband outside of the door, a look of dismay gracing her gentle features.

"How is she?" asked her husband. Catherine shook her head.

"The child will not come out and she keeps asking for the King." Her voice shook slightly, for even Lady Swan was afraid of what might happen to the queen now. Her husband carefully embraced her.

"I sent someone to rush to Coldwick and see if the king has arrived yet—he is to escort him back," he comforted her.

 _September 2nd, 1484 – Adelton Hall_

The midwife was at her wit's end. She felt powerless before such an ordeal. The child would not come out. She worried it was turned the wrong way. She had explained it to the queen who started crying in desperation.

"Are you saying it will perish?" Marianne cried, not willing to face such an option.

"Both of you will, unless it comes out. We can force it out, but it will most likely not survive it," she lamented, desperation now laced her voice.

Marianne starred at the ceiling, still feeling the babe kicking and twisting in her stomach. Tears rolled form her tired face as she closed her eyes. She would most likely not be able to see her husband again.

"Then cut me open," she ordered, her voice steady as she did so. Several of the ladies present thought they had misheard her.

"Your Majesty, we cannot—"

"This child needs to be born! If it is a boy, it needs to enter into this world. I want you to take a knife and cut open my womb. I have heard of such procedures before."

"But you will not survive!" the midwife exclaimed. "And what of the king? How can I look him in the eyes and tell him I sliced you open, leaving you to die?" Marianne clenched her fists, biting down hard as another contraction of pain washed over her.

"I have waited long enough. He will not make it here before one or both of us die. I wish my child to live before I do. So do as I say before it is too late," she cried. She did not wish to add how scared she was at the prospect. Marianne wanted them to get the infant out before she changed her mind. "I order you as your queen," she growled through the pain.

The midwife was at a loss for words. So she ordered Swan to enter, to be witness to the queen's wishes. Marianne told him everything and he had to refrain from calling her mad. But he respecter her decision—there was little else he could do.

After he had left the room, the ladies in waiting put on their aprons, each lady putting her weight on one limb of the suffering woman.

The midwife had no time to call for a surgeon, so she would have to cut the womb open herself.

Marianne saw the old woman near her with the sharp knife in hand. Catherine was right by her side, holding her right arm down. "I am here, Marianne," the younger woman said, calling the queen by name. Marianne smiled through the pain and the tears and the knife made a quick slash across her lower abdomen. She felt the flaming pain and she bit down hard as blood stained the white linen of the bedspread.

A moment of silence followed as she felt two hands inside of her womb. Suddenly a cry sounded out in the early morning, a cry that was worth every ounce of pain for her. The midwife picked up the bloody child, seemingly healthy despite having been born almost a month prematurely. She handed it to another woman who went to wash it while the old woman set to save the queen. She knew there was a small chance of survival but there was still a chance, nonetheless.

Alas, there were many variables. She had to stop the bleeding, the wounds could not infect or the queen would surely die. The task seemed dire, but the midwife did all she could.

As she started sewing the abdomen closed, Marianne looked up, her vision blurred as her blood streamed out of her.

"I want my child," she said in a faint voice. "Was it a boy? It has to be…," she trailed off, fighting against the arms that pinned her down. She ignored the needle that pierced her skin, she already knew there was little the people present in the room could do to save her.

One of the ladies went over to the queen, holding the child in her arms. "Let her believe she gave birth to a son," Catherine whispered in the lady's ear before she kneeled down next to the queen. The lady held back a sob at the tragic scene before her. She merely nodded, sure her voice would break otherwise.

"You gave birth to a beautiful boy," Catherine lied as the lady placed the screaming creature next to Marianne. She smiled, feeling her eyes shut slowly as the blood would not stop flowing from her open womb.

"Tell the king I want to name him Philip, like his father," she sighed, drinking in the sight of the small girl next to her, enveloped in several blankets. Marianne was happy, thinking she had given an heir to the kingdom.

Silent tears streamed from Catherine's face as the queen slowly shut her eyes—her life leaving her in one final breath. The midwife stopped sewing once she realized that Marianne's heart had stopped beating.

* * *

 _March 30th, 1520 – Constantinople_

"It has only been three days," Isabella argued. "You said I was not ready then, how could I have become so in just three days, _hanim_ ," she added in a respectful tone, just as Melike liked it.

"If I say you are ready, then you are ready. This evening you are to eat a late supper with Lord Braun and his friends. If they approve of you and Lord Braun sees your loyalty, you will be moved away from here whereby someone else will train you," Melike answered harshly. "Hope and pray that they move you to the Royal Harem."

Isabella hid nausea that started in the pit of her stomach. She had no wish to dine with Braun and his foreign friends. She had no idea what to do or say.

"You already know what to do, so do not disappoint me, or I will have you whipped," Melike continued. "We are to dress you for tonight, so in a few hours the seamstress will arrive with her selection of dresses for you."

"And I cannot wear this?" Isabella asked. She wore the typical ottoman dress for females; a long tunic in soft pink with a thin robe in a contrasting blue, a sash in white was tightly tied around her waist. She had a small hat on her head where a veil hung from its back.

"Of course not!" Melike exclaimed. "You must wear the attire from your own land!" she snickered.

The Ottoman woman asked Isabella to start undressing as a bath was being drawn for her. While Isabella bathed, close to the opened windows in her room, she stared out, looking at the breathtaking view. Summer felt closer. She had forgotten the days and even the months by now. When one of the servants told her that they were close to April, her eyes seemingly bulged out of their sockets. Isabella had been away from Angloa since February. The time had passed more quickly than she could have imagined. Isabella's thoughts drifted to her mother.

Renée probably thought she was dead by now. The thought saddened her greatly. She did not wish to make her mother suffer more. She wished she could go home to her.

Her thoughts quickly drifted to Braun. He was viler than she gave him credit for. At this point, Isabella had not been surprised at the prospect of being sold as a slave. For Braun's sake, it would be best if she did not end up next to a man with power—Isabella would do all it took to destroy the cowardly Angloan traitor. He should never have told her it was he who slayed Edward. Isabella could have ignored his treason against the crown, but not his slaughter of the man she cared for.

She grew warm at the thought of Edward's lips on her once more. Another feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and spread down as she remembered his hands on her and how he had looked at her. It had been so very different to Braun's brute who had broken into her chamber and nearly forced himself on her. Once that memory was conjured up, Isabella put her head underwater to forget about it.

She was scrubbed clean and put into a fresh chemise. An hour later, when her hair was dry, a young girl started combing through it, astonished at the auburn tresses that glided through her fingers like silk.

"You have very beautiful hair," the young girl said shyly in Turkish. Isabella merely nodded, thanking her—her mind somewhere else as her locks were pinned into place.

Soon there was a knock on the door and a woman stepped in, followed by Melike. It was the seamstress. This one was very different to the old one she'd had in Wessport. For this woman was no Antonia Coticelli—she was all refinement and finesse.

The seamstress started dictating the other servants and soon the poor young woman jumped in and out of several fashionable gowns. But none of them suited her taste; they were too refined and heavy for her liking.

But, finally, it seemed one gown caught her eye. It was a simple dress in soft yellow. The muslin fabric hung around her like a floating cloud and the high waist gave the gown an ancient twist. Once Isabella had donned it, all of the women in the room started showering her with compliment after compliment.

Melike soon ordered them all away, standing alone with Isabella finally. "I expect to hear only the best from his lordship. Or I will take great pleasure in seeing you being whipped this evening," Melike said with a snarl, raising one eyebrow as she eyed the girl. Isabella did not back down and only offered a genuine smile, completely ignoring the words of the other.

"Of course, hanim. I will not disappoint you. But if I should succeed, you will indeed wish you had never met me," she continued with a neutral mask on her face. Two guards knocked on the door, there to escort Isabella to the dining area.

She left Melike with her words in her throat, not able to come with a reasonable comeback, for what Isabella said was indeed true.

 _March 30th – Sea of Marmara_

The very same day, their ship had entered by the small Çanakkale strait. The city kept a watch over the Dardanelle waterway as all ships had to pass through before entering the Sea of Marmara.

It was therefore that Lorenzo had insisted they sailed at night. Ominous clouds had threatened during the day and luck seemed on their side. For during the night, a heavy fog obscured any view a lookout might have from the watchtower onto the sea. They quietly sailed through the fog in the early hours of the morning. All held their breath as the ship caught the wind and quickly moved through the stretch.

As time passed, it got brighter and brighter, until dawn was barely an hour away. The fog was lifting, revealing a close coastline on one side.

"I have no idea how we will get out once more," Lorenzo muttered under his breath.

The beams of the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, threatening the ship with discovery. But before they knew it, the vessel was out of the stretch and inside the closed off sea. They were in true Ottoman territory now. Since Constantinople was a safely guarded city, the Marmara Sea was closely protected as well.

But Lorenzo knew what he was doing. The fair-haired Italian would retire every so often to his cabin, speaking with the navigator. With the maps they had, and previously received intelligence of the maritime patrols or merchant ships that would pass the area—they expertly managed to avoid them, not spotting a single ship on their way to Constantinople.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, they passed a cluster of islands, almost in the middle of the small sea. Edward stared ahead, at what was waiting. His conversation with Carlisle weighed heavy on his shoulders. The mask was a burden now more than ever. He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth in silence, grateful that the mask would hide any expression that would otherwise give him away.

The gentle sigh of the sea brushed across his covered features. There was a strange feeling that settled in his stomach the closer they got to the Ottoman capital. This had been his home for years, and now he was about to return. Edward never thought in a hundred years that he would ever step foot in the city again.

Carlisle had finally started finding his sea legs. He did not feel as nauseous as before. It would only come in small spurts when the ship was violently rocked by the harsh winds that would usually come just before nightfall. He looked at the clear blue waters, seemingly endless in depth. By the coastline, in the far distance, he could spot something he had never seen; turquoise waters. They had been too far away from the costal line of Greece for him to see those radiant waters, shining under the sun as the waves softly broke against the white shores.

By afternoon the sea had calmed, not a cloud was visible in the sky. The gently moving waters glittered in the light of the sun, brightening up the horizon even more. Lorenzo had informed them that they were merely days from the coast where he would drop them off.

"Five miles north of the city is where we will drop you. You will have to swim ashore—"

"Jacob cannot swim all that well," Carlisle trailed off as he and Edward spoke with the captain.

"We will get you as close to the coast as we can, but we cannot spare any of our smaller boats to take you ashore. That we can only do once we see you returning with your fiancée. If you take a boat ashore you might be seen more easily.

"We will manage," Edward rasped, staring off into the distance. He could not believe how close they were. Isabella just had to hold on for a few more days and they would come for her.

"Why five miles up north?" asked Carlisle.

"It is a more desolate area with fewer roads by the coast. We won't be seen as likely. Once we drop you off we are sailing inwards, toward the sea, to hide.

"That is good. Then we are just to wait until we reach our destination," Carlisle murmured. He was feeling the pressure. Everything could go wrong. One wrong step and they could be seized. Even if Angloa kept some trade with the Ottomans, they were by no means allied. If three strange Angloans were found lurking in the city without permission, they could be taken captive.

It was something Edward was willing to risk, at least for himself. He had tried to urge Jacob and Carlisle to stay back but none would listen to reason.

As night fell, they sat in Edward's chamber. The air was tense with anticipation. The three of them all knew what might happen once they stepped foot on land.

"I say it is Edward's mask who will give us away," Jacob scoffed in a playful manner. It provoked chuckles in the other tense men. It seemed the mask had become less taboo as their friendship had evolved. But what Carlisle had confronted Edward about was still too personal.

"So what will we do once we arrive? What is the plan this time? For we do have a plan this time, right?" Jacob asked curiously. He didn't want to go in blind like they had in Rome.

"I have some friends who could help us. They could house us for the night and help us get wherever we wanted to go," Edward said as he crossed his fingers under his chin. He had not seen them in over eleven years. He wondered how much they would have changed. He had been a teenager when they arrived. His mind wandered off to the first time he had seen the markets toward the local merchant's hub of the city. His eyes had almost escaped their sockets as he saw the domed mosque for the first time, with its pillars reaching for the sky. They had lived in a poorer area of the city. But for a long time he had been happy—except for when wearing the mask. It had taken him a long while to get used to it and as kids teased him, adults would snicker behind his back. So slowly but surely, Edward started snapping at them, sending glares. Just as he had trained with his masters in the Far East, he found a trainer in the city as well, willing to teach him more about the art of war and combat. It was the only solace he could find when he was constantly faced with a sneering and unaccepting society.

"Do you know the road we have to trek to get into the city?" The fewer people they met, the better it would be.

"We will have to keep off the road like we did in Rome," Edward murmured, taking a look on the map. He started pointing at it. "Here is where the main road north goes." He pointed at a desolate area just north-west of the city. "We must still go through the gates upon entering the city. Constantinople is not like Rome. After the Ottomans took it, they made sure to repair any breakings in the wall. It is almost impermeable, both to sacking or to smaller groups—like ours." Jacob and Carlisle grew tense as he revealed such critical information.

"Will you not be stopped at the gates?" asked Lorenzo, pointing at the odd looking trio. "I do not wish any disrespect," he began, growing uncomfortable as it was evident to what he was referring to. "But you three do not exactly inspire—"

"If we are confronted by the guards we will just say we are Venetians," Edward cut him off. "People from Venice, poor or rich will mean good trade to the Ottomans. If they think we are there to seek our fortune they will let us in." He sounded sure of himself, but the rest weren't as sure. Yet, neither Jacob nor Carlisle questioned him at this point. They held too much trust in him.

"And what about…" Lorenzo began, looking at Edward as he gestured to his face.

"Many people who have scars cover them when they enter the city—I am no different." The tone of his voice was not pleasant as they yet again touched on a subject that was not comfortable for him.

"These are the Ottomans. They will be on the lookout for people like you. They might think you are a leper in disguise, there to infect the whole city," he said worriedly. Carlisle and Jacob could not help but see a point in his reasoning.

"Let me worry about that," Edward said in an enigmatic way.

"Then it seems all we have to do now is wait," Carlisle sighed, quickly changing the focus. He, Jacob and Lorenzo kept looking at the map and going over the plan. Edward went up to deck. He needed some fresh air. The constricting tension in the captain's quarters felt suffocating to him.

Night had long since fallen as he came up on deck. A gentle spring breeze caressed his form. The Mediterranean seemed to embrace him like a long lost child. He stared emptily at the dark sea. In the distant horizon, lights from nearby port towns flickered in the still darkness. The faint moon did little to illuminate the black of night.

For him, it felt like traveling back in time. He did not know what exactly might await him in that old city. Edward wondered if some of his old friends were still alive. When he was faced with the death of Musa he had been afraid that other friends had met a similar fate. As the stars slowly became visible in the sky—allowing the navigator to easily navigate the hostile waters, he looked forward.

What of Isabella? Lately, she had been less in his mind. Edward was ashamed that he was trying to push her out, afraid of how he was acting lately. He was being careless—it scared him. He had realized a while ago that there was little he would not do for her. It was almost as if their time apart had only drawn him closer to her. His heart sped up as her form appeared once more before him. She seemed so innocent in such a hostile world. He sometimes grew wary; wondering how she could survive in such a harsh reality. Alas, Isabella had managed to face her father's death. And she had accepted her engagement to him. He only wondered if she felt more than care toward him. Edward grew afraid sometimes. When he slept and let his mind wander, he would tell himself that she only kissed him out of pity, that she could never grow to love someone like him.

Edward suddenly stopped himself. Did he want her to love him? The thought that he had tried to evade for so many months—the word that he had forcibly shut out of his mind seemed to grow strong within him now. He had never known true love for a woman, not really. He wondered then if that was what he felt for her. The prospect of loving Isabella seemed even more daunting now, for the fact was that he did not wish to have her toy with his heart and eventually break it.

Maybe, as they returned back to Angloa, they could start getting to know each other again. He was certain that as soon as they were in each other's arms again it would all be alright. Edward audibly scoffed at himself, startling one of the sailors who was quietly taking down one of the sails. The poor man nearly jumped out of his shoes as he spotted the large black shadow.

Edward found himself too naïve at times. He quickly ignored what had just gone through his mind. It was better to meet Isabella first and then let such thoughts wander carelessly around.

 _March 31st – Constantinople_

Isabella stared at the starlit sky as midnight passed. She found there were too many stars to count there. Her heart soared as she leaned against the rail of the balcony, taken in—as always—by the alluring prospect of the night. Alas, she felt alone as she stared up at the heavens. Edward was no longer under the same sky. The young woman hugged the iron railing and bit her teeth together. She consoled herself that he was now looking down at her—all his worries and troubles were now over. Another man in her life came to thought. Her father must be there now, looking as his daughter tried her best to take care of herself. She wondered what Charles Swan would say if he saw her now. Isabella felt that the scared girl who watched helplessly as her father was taken away was gone—or she had climbed somewhere deep within her, guarded by someone else now.

"Are you ready?" came a harsh voice behind her. Isabella did not turn around as she recognized Melike's voice. Her chocolate eyes grew hard as she placed the loose shawl over her shoulders. The young woman turned around, determination shining through her whole being. She took mindful steps toward Melike, walking past her, not even acknowledging the woman's presence. Melike—someone who had brought her little joy as she spent time in Constantinople—remained silent as she watched a cold and calculating Isabella Swan walk out of that room.

Although not showing it, Isabella's heart was racing as she walked down the many stairs of the tower.

She started setting into character.

The young woman remembered her first dance outside of Adelton. It had been in Hayes, the day before her sixteenth birthday. It was a warm evening in August and her father had taken her. She had been nervous, yet secure in the presence of her father, who had led her through the crowd in the mansion of the mayor. Isabella had blushed as a boy she had fancied at the time looked her way. In her innocent adolescence she had accepted his hand as he asked for a dance. The young woman grew docile at the memory, a sad nostalgia washed over her. In her eyes, however, the truthfulness and innocence of that sixteen-year-old shone through. Once she descended into the courtyard, Braun stood waiting. He was to escort her to the dining area for a very late dinner. His so called friends had arrived very late.

The older man grew surprised as he saw the innocent beauty. She was not the same girl who had been sending daggers his way on their journey to the city.

"You look ravishing, my dear Miss Swan," he permitted himself to say. A shy and involuntary smile spread on her lips as she looked down, blushing at his compliment. However, she said nothing as she took his hand. Braun smirked at the docile and obedient young woman. Melike had done a wonderful job in subduing her.

He escorted her to the dining room, an area where Isabella had not yet been. "We are to meet some very powerful friends of mine tonight. If they are impressed with you, a wonderful future will follow for you, my dear," Braun whispered in her ear. He grew even more delighted as he spotted goosebumps on her exposed neck.

"I see, my lord," was all she said. Her voice seemed softer than before. But Braun only thought he imagined it.

The arched doorway led to an impressive room. It was high in roof—mosaics in blues, yellows, greens, and whites adorned one side of the wall. Flowery motifs crawled up toward the ceiling. The other three walls were covered in rich fabrics, tapestries or even carpets that clashed with the initial mosaic wall. Alas, they were still elegant in their own ways. Backless hassock chairs in blue and reds were placed around a mahogany table where men sat and conversed.

Isabella waited as Braun introduced her to the company. She ignored most of their looks on her. Her eyes searched each of them, for something standing out. She quickly recognized the old man from the ship—the one Braun had been talking with as they arrived in the city. She turned to them—a warm smile graced her lips as she gave a deep and elegant curtsy.

Braun smirked at he took her hand, seating her next to him, telling her to pour drinks for the others. Isabella did so, always keeping a shy smile on her face.

"She is a sight," one of the men said in his language as he looked at her. Isabella's fingers reached for the vase containing a sweet brew, pouring it into their cups. When she poured it into the old man's the look in her eyes changed, it grew more vivacious and fierce, as if she were sending him a message. It seemed only he had seen such a look, for a curious eyebrow rose, subtly followed by a small smirk.

Supper went by in a haze for her. The mask Melike had so carefully crafted for her never fell out of place. Whenever Isabella spoke or laughed, she felt as if it were a stranger in her place. It was strange to see herself behave in such a way—like she was on the sideline, watching a complete replica of herself delight the lords in the room.

And they were most delighted with her. But not entirely convinced—except for one of them; which was enough for her. As they finished their food, the old lord asked if she would walk with him. Isabella gave a slight nod in his direction as they toured the gallery of the courtyard—always under the watchful eyes of the others. Many of them did the same. Some took the opportunity to smoke or just philosophize, something Braun blatantly detested. Life was too short to speculate over.

The old man—Hassan, took her arm in his as they toured the courtyard. "It seems Lord Braun has indeed put a lot of faith in you," he spoke in clear English, yet his voice was low so the others could not hear.

"Lord Braun is just mindful of me, my lord," she answered softly.

"But you _do_ know why we have all been gathered here tonight."

"You insult me by asking such a question. I thought it evident at this point." Isabella broke eye contact as they finished a whole turn of the gallery. Braun kept to the shadows, wanting desperately to hear what they were speaking of.

It seemed a part of Isabella's mask slipped as her eyes caught sight of Braun, and Hassan seemed perceptive of it. He rose his head high, the silver beard blowing in the gentle breeze. "Where do your loyalties lie, my lady?" he suddenly asked. Isabella was not ready for such a question. Melike had not prepared her for this. But she turned to the Ottoman lord and proudly rose her head.

"With myself. I will not fool you, my lord, by saying that I am a faithful servant of Lord Braun. He brought me here, far from my home," she kept a respectful tone in her voice as she spoke. But the lord seemed struck by her truthfulness. Isabella grew wary then that she might have doomed herself. If he did not approve of her, the other lords might not either, and she might be cast aside.

Instead, he smiled. Hassan turned toward her and gently patted her on her arm. "Good. A person who is loyal to someone like Braun is no different from a dog, following a doomed master."

Isabella's stomach jumped at those words. "Doomed, my lord?"

"Worry not about such things," he whispered. Hassan stopped and let go of her hand. Isabella eyed him under her lashes. Might it be that the man before her held just a great a dislike for Braun as she did? She thought him Braun's friend. Maybe the proud Angloan lord was losing favor with his old friends and desperately needed something to tie them together. Selling Isabella off to one of them—or making her a Royal Concubine—would indeed retain some of his holding in society as well as securing him a large sum of money.

"Might I presume you will return here?"

Hassan chuckled, a most heartwarming sound to her ears. "I will indeed. Perhaps it will be to whisk you away from Lord Braun," Hassan murmured, looking at the Angloan lord. He found that the two were being closely watched. "He might think us plotting."

"I do not _plot_ , my lord," Isabella said, nodding toward Braun and smiling at him. "I like being direct with people and have the same courtesy returned to me," she smirked.

"Then you are in the wrong place."

"I think I know very few honest people. And those I have known have forfeited their lives to the truth they believed in." She did not let her own sadness get a hold over her. Hassan seemed pensive at her words as well.

"Before the sun sets tomorrow I will return, my lady," he finally said. Isabella never responded. She knew she had gained him over. The young woman gave a short nod before giving him an elegant curtsy. Hassan walked over to his friends, to indulge in more conversation. Meanwhile, Braun stepped toward Isabella.

"What did he say?" There was a nervousness in his countenance that silently pleased her. Braun must desperately wish for that man's approval. Isabella widened her eyes, gently meeting his.

"He will return tomorrow, my lord," she whispered.

A sinister smile spread on his features as he saw his plans unfold. "Good." Braun could not contain his giddiness. Suddenly Isabella gripped his hand, dragging him aside.

"But my lord, is it true that man will take me away?" she asked innocently. Braun found himself surprised, he did not think Melike would've had such good progress with the young woman.

"If Lord Hassan approves of you, you will be allowed to enter the Royal Harem. If you enter there, my lady, you have the opportunity to catch the eye of either the Sultan or his son. If you do, it could bode well for all of our futures," he started. "I hope you will know how to thank me if that happens." He turned to fully face her, his features softening. "You do know I'm doing all of this for you, right? I am giving you a future."

She had to fight hard to scoff at those final phrases. Isabella did still not trust in his word. It was not certain that Hassan would whisk her away to court, she could end up in a whole other place if she was not careful.

"But… I will be alone there. Despite detesting you for the death of my fiancé, you are the only one I can rely on, my lord. I do not wish to part ways from you," she said in a desperate voice. Braun could not believe his ears. This was not the Isabella he knew.

"We will never part ways, truly," he blinked. "I must go now," he whispered as his presence was required with the Ottomans. He was beyond pleased at her desperation—he knew he had her then, or so he thought.

As he left her, Isabella fought an involuntary shudder at his touch. Yet, a small grin touched her lips. It seemed Braun was slowly letting down his defenses around her—thinking he had won her for his own.

 _April 2nd_

In the dead of night, they slowly made their way to shore. The waves were high and perilous, splashing against their faces as they fought the current. Edward could hear Jacob's rugged breaths behind him as he clung to the rope. He had tied a piece of rope around himself and given Jacob a piece of floating wood to hang on to.

They had silently climbed into the water—the three of them. The clouds were all but absent from the moonlit sky. And so they started swimming toward shore. Carlisle had a sack of their belongings on his back. Edward dragged a mortified Jacob behind him, his tired muscles fought hard against the black waters.

It seemed to take them forever. The icy waters chilled them to the bone. Mouthfuls of the liquid seemed to jump into their panting mouths every so often. But soon they arrived on the sandy beach. The three of them dragged themselves up on the wet sand—the waves breaking against the land, just at their feet.

Edward lay on his back, staring up at the stars. He was so close to her that he could almost feel her touch.

"I am never…doing that…again," Carlisle said in between breaths. He cast the fabric sac away, trying to regain his composure. He tore off his leather boots, letting the water run in a clear stream from the confinements of his shoes. He unpacked their clothes, setting them on the beach to dry while he wrung his loose chemise. Edward was still too tired to move yet, as he had not only dragged Jacob, but the big board he had clung to and his own sack of clothes.

"When we return we steal a boat if we have to," Jacob muttered. "This was worse than swimming under the walls of Rome."

"Agreed," Edward said after a long while. "But only because Jacob can't swim," he teased. Jacob gave out an angry snort but he did not say more. After a few minutes of catching their breaths, they got up.

"We need to regroup. Tonight we travel toward the city and tomorrow early morning we enter it through the north gate."

"And when do we sleep?" Carlisle and Jacob said in unison.

"A few hours before we enter—if we have time," Edward offered in a curt voice. "Or you can just wait for me here," he continued.

"No! We will see this through," Carlisle said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Sleep is not important now, getting into that city is."

Edward gave them a nod. They let their clothes dry for a bit more until they scooped them up, draping them over their backs as they started their walk toward Constantinople.

They walked in silence under the guiding light of the moon. The trio kept from the main roads, as they had planned. Every so often they would hear something and duck in the bushes. But it was often the wind or shadows, playing tricks on their tired minds. Hours seemed to pass as they walked up, toward an elevated plateau. Soon the sea was far below them, in the distance. They looked over the glittering ocean from the cliff upon which they stood. Further south they saw the lights of the city, spreading its arms over the small point upon which it sat.

"Is that…?" Jacob began, but he could not finish his sentence. He could not believe he had gotten to see so much of the world during the past few weeks. To think he was about to enter Constantinople, taken from the Byzantines almost seventy years ago.

"It is," Edward answered. The memories of the city began to stir once more. He wished Sofia could be here with him, to be able to lay her eyes on that magnificent city once more. In the lights of the many lit candles, they could discern the wall that enveloped and protected the many buildings and small houses. He immediately saw the outline of the converted mosque—once a mighty cathedral that had never seen its equal, until they built a larger one in Seville. He even managed to locate the Royal palace—a place he had never been to. He had only been a commoner, a peasant then, not a lord. It still felt strange to think of himself as a lord. Edward had always accepted his role as a general of an army, but never as a count. But he accepted that title because of _her_. He had never really wished to take part of the nobility, it held little for him. He had little use of vast lands and riches—he was a wanderer, a free man, just like Zoráida had put it. Maybe, when all was over, Isabella would not be against traveling the world herself. But he would not be selfish and ask such a thing of her.

"You said you lived here once," murmured Jacob as he caught sight of Edward silently regarding the city. "Was it very long ago?"

He remained silent for a while, as usual. After what felt like an age, Edward answered. "It feels that way," he rasped. "My life as I know it began here," he continued, almost mesmerized by the vision before him.

Jacob kept up the chatter, but Carlisle could not ignore what he had heard. Was it here were Edward started wearing the mask? He wondered if he had encountered some sort of accident in that city, leaving him disfigured for the rest of his life. It made the young man less eager to enter its confinements. Yet, Constantinople held a strange attraction to him, as if its mysteries slowly pulled him in, making him want to uncover all of its secrets. Carlisle had a feeling he was about to encounter a whole new and strange world. They were outside of the Christian world now—in a whole new territory.

"To think this city was lost only a couple of generations ago, and that few lifted a finger to help," he said with melancholy in his voice. "…a city that had been ours for millennia." Carlisle saw the glittering lights and the strange architecture of the buildings. His curiosity grew for what it might look like in daylight.

"It is not our place to dwell on such things. We were not alive when it happened. What is done is done," Edward said. He had only known Constantinople under the Ottomans, but he had heard some speak of how it used to be under Byzantine rule—much like how Musa used to speak of Al-Andalus: southern Spain under Moorish rule. It was no different—they were the same stories that glorified different ways of living.

"Dawn will soon be upon us. I suggest we find a place to rest before entering the city. Our clothes should be dry by then and we should be able to change," Edward said as he put his bag of clothes and provisions down. They were barely half a mile from the city gates. Yet their aching bodies needed a good rest. Most of their clothes were dry, but some were still humid, and they wanted them to be dry, lest they freeze as they lay still during the rest of the night.

Time seemed to pass quickly. The heavens slowly circled above them, the stars shining their faint lights over the three resting forms. Edward could see the different signs in the sky—star signs he had been taught since a young boy, by his own mother. It was one of the few things that reminded him of her in a positive manner.

With each breath, early morning seemed closer—and with that came its cold. It was the frost before the warmth of the sun warmed the land. The sky lit up at the nearing fiery globe, the frost covered grass slowly thawed and a fresh layer of dew now covered the emerald carpet upon which they lay. They had seen many impressive sunrises since setting out from Angloa, but—to Carlisle and Jacob, few could compare to the vision before them.

As the rays of the golden orb illuminated the picturesque scene, they caught their first glimpse of the ancient city.

Once catching its sight, the Sea of Marmara was left behind. They had arrived at the point where Europe almost touched Asia—only a thin stretch dividing their final union. Once seven small towns on seven hills had stood here, and now they united in the embrace of the sea to form an incomparable city, unique to its time. It embodied the essence of an ideal city, with its fields, its sea, its port, connecting rivers, gardens, deep valleys and leafy hills, narrow streets, oceans of houses and peaceful lagoons that no brush nor painter could ever begin to express fully.

From whence they stood, they perceived all, and perhaps, even a little bit more. Distinguishing themselves against the surrounding beauty were the Topkapi—the castle of the Seven Towers, the dome of Saint Sophia, the minarets of the mosque of Achmet, the green cypresses of Scutari. They all rose to meet the sky as prayers of nature by which, in their shadow, lay the distant countryside. They discerned houses of recreation and harems, hidden among forests of flowers and vegetables. The white lines of the aqueducts—almost erased by festoons of ivy, snaked between the houses and monuments. The Bosporus, with its undulating surface, moved in a steady rhythm, made by the fighting currents. And the Golden Horn stood motionless as the Sea of Marmara—resplendent as an immense mirror—was illuminated by the splendid sun of the East, reflecting that beautiful sky in its immensity.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I've started my semester at University as well as a job, so I've barely any time left for writing and editing. I will try to keep posting once a week but don't be alarmed if I only manage to post every other week from now on.**

 **Thanks for the wonderful reviews for the last chapter. I hope you will enjoy this one!**

 **Cheers!**


	10. Chapter 10

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 10_

 _October 21st, 1488 – Wessport_

Philip stared at his two daughters, playing side by side. Victoria was holding the small hand of Rosalie in her own, as she showed her around the gardens of the palace. Rosalie had started to look more and more like her mother, while Victoria took after him. Whenever he lay eyes upon his youngest, the scarred wound in his heart would reopen. Painful memories of him rushing into Adelton Hall, only to find he had been too late—his wife had perished only minutes before. He still remembered her hair, her smell, and her open eyes as she stared emptily at the ceiling while her newborn daughter lay next to her, softly crying and screaming.

Catherine Swan had been the one to take charge. She spoke of what they had told the queen—that his wife thought she had given birth to a son. Philip would have wanted it that way as well, for then that suffering would not have been for nothing if she could at least die in peace. He renamed the child Rosalie, taking it into his embrace, asking to be left alone with his wife and daughter.

He had cried then, his soul ripped to pieces, just like when Edmund had perished. Philip had lamented his life, cursing his existence. He always thought he would die before her, not that she would leave him alone on this earth.

His daughters were still oblivious to the harshness of the world, to the existence they'd been thrust into. Philip had few years left, and the only man he trusted was Athar, who had lost his own wife and child only a few years ago.

The general cold and gray afternoon suited his state of mind. Athar found him sitting on a damp stone bench, watching over the two girls as the leaves turned color, soon falling dead to the ground—making way for winter.

"They are growing fast, Your Majesty," he said, watching as Victoria commanded Rosalie around the gardens, both chasing each other.

"Too fast. I worry for their future," Philip said in a distant tone.

"You could still make Victoria your heir."

"Few people from Marianne's family remain. She would have little support against Magnus' claim."

"To think Magnus makes no moves to hide his yearning for your crown," Athar snapped. "He has few followers, but those who remain loyal are indeed powerful to him."

"My brother's soul has been corrupted by greed. I can see the hunger for power in his eyes whenever we meet. Too late is it now to send him away—too late to openly renounce him before all. I cannot send him away from court unless I want to cause a civil war." Philip felt those words sour in his mind. "A war between brothers." The thought disgusted him. He'd rather let it slide, because even if Magnus' brashness was disrespectable, he would not take action against him, knowing well it would end in misery and death for Angloa.

Philip sighed, looking at his oldest daughter who sent a smile his way. "I am king, yet I am powerless." He clenched his jaw, a glazed look clouded his eyes. Philip was more tired than he had ever been before. "I've no heir, no one to take my place. When I am gone, I know my brother will take the crown."

"Then produce another child with another woman," Athar dared. He knew it was a delicate subject. But he was also the only one who could breach it, without incurring the ire of the king.

"We have already spoken of this, Thomas. I will not remarry," Philip snapped. "And I am old. I do not think I can father another child."

"You could at sixty-nine, so why not at seventy-three?" Athar asked. Philip looked away, not willing to speak more of it. He ran his fingers through his now white hair, raising an arrogant eyebrow at his friend.

"I will not disrespect Marianne—"

"If you wish to secure your daughters' future if you wish them to be safe in this court, then remarry someone from a powerful family and have a child with that woman. It is the only way to keep the country away from Magnus, and from Rebecca. You have no male heir and he will claim the throne because of it. There are still many who are loyal to you, but if you do not remarry, many may turn to support Magnus, in fear of what the repercussions will be once he becomes monarch.

"And who did you have in mind?" Philip asked, understanding the importance in Athar's words.

"Leonore of Valois, daughter of the Count of Anglouême," he said with hope in his voice.

He was familiar with her family. They were relatives of the current king of France. But her name made Philip despair. "She is not even twenty yet, and she is to marry someone nearly fifty years her senior? I think not," he scoffed.

"Her family has a grand presence at the French court. Your son would have their backing. And it is they who have reached out to us, expressing their wishes to form an alliance between the house of Fell and Valois."

Philip took some time to think about it. He stared at his playing daughters, only wishing the best for them. "I will think about it. But I wish to meet this Leonore before anything is decided. She will have to tell me herself of her wish to marry me," Philip said. He was certain that once the Frenchwoman saw the old man she was to marry, she would back out immediately.

 _December 14th, 1488 – Adelton Hall_

He had forgotten how beautiful Adelton could be during winter. The place could only bring him sorrow now. It was the deathbed of both his son and loving wife. Every corridor, every stone reminded him of them. It was as if the walls sighed their names when he walked by.

Philip stared at the image in the mirror. He was old, too old. He started to feel it, in his knees and back—his aching limbs just about ready to give out after a hard day. But, most of all, he saw it in his face, in his eyes. They were tired, from all that life had thrown his way. They had lost their luster after Marianne's death.

His presence in Cadherra was kept a secret. Lord Swan and his wife were trustworthy and had agreed to house the king. He was nervous, for the first time in a long time. Philip was aware of his age, especially since he was to meet a girl almost fifty years his junior—soon to be his wife.

The girl had traveled from France as soon as Athar's letter had reached the seat of her family. Her brother, Guillaume, had escorted her there himself.

They were to meet in the old throne room. He took one last look at the mirror and saw an echo of what he used to be. Philip snickered at it, arching an eyebrow and chuckling as the expression made him look younger. He walked away, opening the door and strolling along the quiet corridors. His breath escaped in a white cloud, his nose turning red from the cold that escaped the damp walls.

He reached the Throne Room too soon. The monarch stood outside that door and hesitated before commanding one of the guards to open it. The king stepped through the tall doors and into the lit space. Lord and Lady Swan stood together with Athar and some other gentlemen, speaking with delightful expressions on their faces. When the king's presence was announced they turned to bow.

"Sire," Athar exclaimed as Philip neared them. "This is the lady's own brother that we've had the pleasure to converse with." Philip neared them and saw a fierce looking young Frenchman who bowed extra deep as the king arrived at the group.

" _Votre Majesté, c'est un grand honneur de faire votre connaissance_ ," he spoke in hushed French. When he straightened, he saw the arched eyebrow of the king.

"I was never much good with languages," Philip started with a roughish grin. "But I have it on good authority that your English is excellent," he mused. The Frenchman in question frowned before letting a chuckle escape.

"It seems you have done your research," Guillaume said in a thick French accent.

The other people present, besides Lord and Lady Swan and Athar, were the Angloan ambassador as well as some noblemen from France, there to escort Leonore Valois.

"I hope your sister's English is as good as your own," Philip said. "I am too old to start learning French," he lamented; but never apologizing.

The ambassador offered a small smile. "The lady's English is superb, Your Majesty. But perhaps you should see for yourself."

In the splendor of winter, the Throne Room was lit up to the brim in golden candlelight. It dulled the sights and colors, giving off a mysterious aura.

Leonore of Valois was the last to enter the room. She was followed by her ladies as the doors opened to reveal her presence.

Into the Throne Room walked a woman so beautiful that Philip felt his jaw drop slightly at the sight of her. Her skin was as white as the snow that fell upon the castle, her hair was as black as a raven's wing. Her lips were full and red, reminiscent of the deep color of cherry. The oval face was cast down, her eyes gazing at the floor. Philip felt the sudden need to see those eyes of hers. Her body was richly dressed in fine silks and jewels, a small train trailing behind her. The purple fabric made a bold statement; she was to be royalty—a queen. Philip wondered if she had chosen the color of the dress herself, or if it had been chosen by her brother.

Leonore glided toward him with easy steps and when she reached the group, she gave a deep curtsy, her face lifting from the floor to stare directly at Philip. For the first time in a while, the king found no words. He was so taken by her that he could only stare—even if only for a few seconds. Her eyes were the most tantalizing things he'd ever seen. The gold that framed her iris popped out like a shining beacon, while the blue that enclosed them, sparkled like rich sapphires. Her orbs captivated him and bewitched him.

" _Majesté_ ," she murmured. The tone was rich, unwavering and decided.

All Philip could do was to offer her his hand. "Shall we take a stroll about the room?" He wanted to get away from the curious onlookers and prying eyes that hovered behind his back. The young woman understood and hesitantly reached for his arm.

They started walking away from the others, heading for the tall windows that offered them a view of the meadows stretching to Coldwick—illuminated by the silver light of the moon.

Both walked in silence for a long while. Leonore made no effort to speak to him. Philip had always been so used to people always wanting a word in his presence that the silence of the woman by his side was new yet refreshing.

"Your choice in dress intrigues me," Philip said, squinting his eyes as he eyed the purple robe. It provoked a light smile in the woman. Her whole face lit up from the expression.

"Purple is the royal color," she stated, turning to look at him.

"Then I suspect I have the answer to my question. I take it you are for this marriage then," he said, almost solemnly. All he received was a nod of confirmation. Even though she was a beauty, his chest felt like it was ripped open as memories of Marianne would not escape. She was ever present, always in his heart.

Philip turned to face her, making sure they were not being watched. "I want to make things clear, my lady," he started as he took her hands in his. "I do not want you to enter this marriage with preconceived inclinations. I will always love my late wife, always. And I am old, very old. You are young enough to be my grandchild—I do not ignore that—." But before he could continue, Leonore bowed her head in respect before placing a hand on his arm.

"What I see in you, _Majesté_ , is a kind man who has much wisdom. I am a nobleman's daughter. Being married off to a king is a great pride for me and my family. I ask little. I only hope I will be worthy of you," she said in a calm manner. Even though there was a general politeness, Philip saw that she lacked the warmth in her eyes that had always been present in Marianne. He sighed, knowing well that the girl had little say in the matter. Yet, she seemed determined to be his queen.

"Then I suppose we are to be married," he stated after a while, wondering if she knew what she'd gotten herself into.

* * *

 _April 2nd, 1520 – Constantinople_

The gate stood between two heptagonal towers built in later Byzantine times. The arch was slightly pointed, red and white bricks alternating as it pointed elegantly up. It was tall, looming over the three men who stared at the endless wall. It seemed to have roots reaching the center of the earth.

Jacob, Carlisle, and Edward had changed clothes, casting aside their Angloan doublets and simple hoses for Italian styles. They dressed as merchants, with rich details on the fabrics they wore. Edward dressed in a bright red doublet, the damask lining was in ivory and even purple. Jacob and Carlisle dressed in copper and dusty green. Their barrettes were low on their faces.

"You will not speak, even when spoken too," Edward murmured under his breath as they neared the first defense of the city. Threatening guards stood by the doors to Constantinople, armed with fine swords and tough armor.

"Do they even know the difference between English and Italian?" Jacob's keen eyes searched the scene before him. But he could not help but stare at the city—the world that lay beyond that vast gate.

"You would be surprised." Edward adjusted his mask one final time, ready to enter. They had no papers to show, not that the guards would usually ask for identification at the northwestern gate—if he remembered correctly.

The three of them walked with purpose toward the growing crowd. It was the first swarm waiting to be let in. Most were farmers, wanting to sell their goods at the markets. Some were travelers, on fine horses or in carriages, impatient to enter the city. Edward and his friends stood out as strangers—they had no horses and no possessions with them.

The _Ghazi_ , the guards, soon took notice of them as they neared in the queue. They eyed the strange westerners. Jacob eyed the guards, dressed in fine tunics, with curved swords hanging from their hips, armor guarding their chest against any critical blows.

Upon nearing them, they were swiftly taken aside by two guards, growing unfriendly as communication seemed difficult. The three of them did not understand what the Ottomans were saying, nor did the Ottomans understand the strangers. Edward kept insisting on talking in Italian, and he finally received a threatening sneer. They wanted identification—for one kept pointing at his mask. When it became clear that the three had no idea what was being said to them, one guard turned to his friend.

"Get Karid," he said, his black eyes taking in the strange trio. The masked one worried him most. Yazid could feel the eyes stare at him from underneath the mask. The large form stretched over him, it felt. But the man stood still, never moving a muscle. He did not like the fright that took a hold over him. Yazid knew one thing, and it was that he would never want to get into a fight with the masked one.

Footsteps echoed from the ground as two men approached with hurry. When his friend came with Karid in tow, Yazid let out a breath of relief.

A striking man in a pristine military uniform came up to them. The trio had been taken further to the side, away from the prying eyes of the farmers and other travelers. Karid wore loose trousers in navy blue, reaching his ankles. His sash was black and he bore a short tunic in the same black and blue. The silver buttons reached all the way up to his neck—each piece perfectly polished. His black mustache was neatly trimmed, just as his hair was pulled back, away from his face. The man bore a small hat, much like the other guards. He looked proud to be wearing the uniform. The lines in his face were harsh, that of a hardened soldier. He bore wrinkles that did not match his age—the mark of constant worrying. His tanned face sagged with the downturn of his mouth, a constant frown that never left his face. His eyes were strikingly clear—hazel that had darkened. Alas, they seemed harsh now.

He stared at them for a while, until his orbs locked on Edward. Suddenly something lit up in the hard eyes—a memory, or an emotion that seemed unbecoming in this hardened military man.

"We thought it best you interrogate these men yourself, sir," Yazid said, sure Karid would agree.

"You are dismissed," came the harsh voice of his superior. Yazid and his other friend both stared in disbelief.

"Surely you will not take them back to the garrison yourself?"

Karid turned to them, the unpleasant harshness back in his face. "I will not repeat myself." Although Jacob nor Carlisle understood him, there was something in Karid's tone that sounded familiar—it held the same powerful undertone reminiscent in Edward's voice. They turned to stare at Edward, who patiently watched the outcome of the conversation. The guards did as he bade, walking back to man the gate. Once they were away, Karid motioned them to follow him. Yazid stared in furious disbelief as the strangers walked into his city, without even an inspection or a questioning. He looked at the masked man.

"Those damned Venetians," he muttered, spitting to the ground. "They always have connections."

"They have money, and lots of it," a farmer muttered as he walked past.

Houses in a myriad of shapes and muted colors defined narrow and crooked streets the moment they passed the walls. Some trees dotted the urban scene as men and women walked by the houses, careful of not stepping into the waste of the middle road. Fabrics hung out of some windows, painting the facades of the houses—telling their own stories. Behind the first buildings, taller houses rose, and they in their own term were overshadowed by even taller structures. It was not like the structured and linear Wessport that Carlisle and Jacob were so used to. Their initial thought of Constantinople was that of contained chaos. But it was an exciting chaos. Their breaths caught in their throats as eyes bulged out of their sockets watching strangely dressed men and women stroll the streets. Edward pulled the hood over his mask, the looks beginning to tear at him as all could not ignore the mask that concealed his face.

Karid did not even bother to check that they followed him—he was certain the trio would catch up. He led them through the maze, each turn disorienting them more than the last. When they thought they had walked for an age, he finally stopped. Carlisle and Jacob looked around, growing alert as they found themselves in a desolate alley, far away from the bustling roads.

The Ottoman waited for one of them to speak. His wrinkles turned more prominent when Edward pulled down the hood of his cape. Their stares rose the tension in the air, making Jacob and Carlisle starting to reach for their weapons.

"A captain of the guard?" Edward finally scoffed in amused disbelief. His otherwise dark and brooding voice grew lighter, easier on the ears—something it had started doing lately. It was a nice change that Carlisle and Jacob welcomed. Gone was the rasping growl, replaced by a fine masculine tune that strangely suited him better.

Karid nodded toward him with stiff movements. "Still wearing that mask?" he retorted before a huge grin spread across his features. It looked strange—the harsh face broke apart as a smile softened his features. It looked bizarre to Carlisle and Jacob.

Both men took the other's hand in a firm handshake, gripping the forearm of the other. But they soon embraced, giving strong pats on their backs.

"You know him?" Jacob blurted out.

"He speaks English?" Carlisle cried, feeling completely fooled.

Karid ignored them with a mere chuckle. The middle-aged man released Edward, looking around to be sure no one was spying on them. "Playing the part of a Venetian was smart—it could have ended rather differently," Karid argued, turning serious as he scolded them. But soon curiosity won and he could not help but ask. "What are you doing here?" his eyes widened like that of a child as he strove to understand.

"I have traveled far and long, my friend. Perhaps here is not the best place to explain it all," Edward said in muted tones, his eyes jumping back and forth between the windows that lined the higher walls surrounding them.

"Say no more. You will come home with me this instant. We can speak there," Karid said.

"Indeed." Edward pointed at his uniform. "You will have to explain how you became a Captain of the guards."

All the masked man received was a chuckle.

 _April 1st_

"Lord Braun has asked for you again."

"Tell him I am still indisposed." Isabella sipped her tea, savoring her closing victory. In a few hours, Hassan would return, hopefully whisking her away. She savored Braun growing ever more impatient—she understood that she was his final hope. Isabella was no fool, she understood what was going on.

When Braun had kidnapped her, he had done so out of spite no doubt. But on their way to Constantinople, he had realized he could use her for his own benefit. By selling her away to the Royal Harem he would be in favor with the Sultan himself, if Isabella pleased him, of course. If not, he would sell her to the highest bidder and still make a profit.

She gripped the china harder, her eyes darkening as she thought of Braun's future. If she gained the favor of the Sultan or his son, she would indeed take her revenge—for Edward. She would enjoy as she watched Braun fall from grace.

"Spite does not become you," a voice sneered to her left. The servant girl who had been attending her swiftly left the room as Melike entered. Isabella was caught off guard, but she did not allow herself to look startled.

She took another sip of the brew. "Is it another lesson of yours, hanim?" she mocked. Isabella gained confidence at the promise of soon being taken away from there. All she received was a dry chuckle.

"You are more of a fool than I gave you credit for," Melike taunted. Isabella put down the teacup with force, looking at the aged woman from under her eyelashes.

"Enlighten me."

Melike strolled around the room, her eyes never leaving Isabella—the judging look always there; always mocking, always severe. "Lord Hassan will make sure you enter some harem," she started, moving toward the table. "If he wills it, you could become a woman of the Sultan," she said.

"Are you afraid of what might happen to you if I do?" Isabella rose, gliding toward Melike in confident steps. "Are you afraid of what I might whisper in his ear?" she chuckled, her head to one side as if contemplating Melike. The older woman's face did not move a muscle.

"You are foolish if you think living in that world is easy. But you will see the hardships for yourself. I will not even begin to mention the backstabbing, the lies, and the conspiracies. This is Constantinople. I was tasked with teaching you our ways, but I see now that you will not last long once you leave these walls," she lamented-as if scolding a small child.

"I have already lived in that world," Isabella countered, thinking of Wessport. "I am well aware of what it entails, how else do you think I ended up here?"

"Your sob stories do not interest me. But tell me, child—once you arrive at the Royal Palace— _if_ you ever arrive there, will you truly be ready to give yourself to the Sultan and become his woman? Maybe you will indeed have that luck, or maybe Lord Hassan has planned to take you for himself. He seemed rather fond of you."

"Wherever I go, it will still entail the beginning of the end for Braun—I will make sure his life ends here."

Melike scoffed at her words. "Revenge is a double-edged sword—you may harm the other, but you will suffer from the process. Few ever recover," she warned.

They stood only a breath away from each other. Isabella sensed Melike's sweet breath hit her face. Her whole body tensed, she wondered if Melike would even reveal their conversation to Braun—it mattered little for she would soon be away from there.

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—Braun will suffer for all that he has done, one way or another. I will make sure his victims receive the justice they deserve." She was surprised at the confidence in her voice. Melike was shorter than she, and Isabella felt herself tower over the other woman. The young Angloan stepped away with an arrogant smile on her face, blinded by her own revenge.

"I will not see Lord Braun until I have spoken with Hassan, you can tell your master as much, _hanim_ ," she curtsied, waiting for Melike to leave her room. The older woman never showed any sign of emotion other than disgust and irritation. She left the room without a word. As soon as the door shut, Isabella went to sit by the table, her breath leaving her in short bursts as her heart calmed down.

The hours passed and the day went by quickly. Isabella would not show it, but she was afraid to leave the confinements of her room—not wanting to stumble upon Braun as he asked for her. She wondered where his desperation to see her came from. Perhaps he was rapidly losing favor among his powerful friends; her ascension to court or to any powerful household seemed to be of vital importance to him.

When twilight was nigh, a knock sounded on her door. She instantly knew it not to be Melike, for the woman never bothered to knock before entering her chamber. Isabella thought it to be one of the servants, there with her evening meal.

"I am not hungry," she spoke up, hoping they would leave her alone. But there was no answer; another knock sounded, louder this time. She got up from bed with a sigh. Isabella wrapped her muslin night gown around her and took short, irritated strides toward the door, ready to give the insisting servant a piece of her mind.

It was too late to slam the door shut as she saw his thin face. The thin hair fell into his eyes, the high forehead was wrinkled in a slight frown. He had somewhat dark circles under his sharp eyes, looking for something in hers as he caught her by surprise.

"My lord?" Isabella squealed at the sight of him. His chemise was untied at the top and he bore no doublet or tunic—the weather had grown warmer at nights.

Braun pushed past her and entered the space without a word. His back was tense as he stopped in the middle of the room. Isabella could not discern if he was angry at her or at something else. But there was something that bothered him.

"I have called on you the whole day," he finally said after a long silence. Isabella stood by the open door, wanting to flee the man that had invaded her room. He still had not turned around so she could not read his expression.

"I thought it best that way," she clumsily tried to explain.

He stared at the tidy room, taking in the details and decorations as if waiting for her to speak. When she offered no words, Braun turned to meet her. He looked tired and defeated; showing his vulnerable state before her.

"Hassan is here," he said with a sigh. Isabella could practically taste his defeat. But when he walked to the door and closed it, she felt as if he had closed the door to her prison.

"Will you not let me go?" she asked, hoping he would think her innocent of any malice. Braun still leaned against the door. The eyes that looked at her made her shiver, she felt trapped under his gaze—disgusted at his nearness. All she could think when she saw him was the hate she felt toward him. Images of Mrs. Rochester and the violated maids were conjured up in her mind and her face grew somber.

"Why did you ignore my summons?" he demanded, his voice harsh. But Braun knew better than to be cruel with her—he needed her on his side after all. Yet the desperation festered. He was wary that she would turn her back on him once she left his home—and she had ample reason to. She thought him the killer of Edward Cullen after all.

Isabella turned from him, thinking of what she could say. "I—" she began, feeling at a loss for words. He still stood by the door, unwilling to let her leave to speak with Hassan until she had given him an explanation. Isabella saw his wretched state—he was nervous, uneasy as the ground crumbled under him. She could not know how fast his position in Constantinople was falling, but it had to be extensive. His connections, his friends— they were all like sand being whisked away by the wind.

A part of her wanted to gloat in his misery, she wanted to lull him into a sense of false security, making him think she was loyal to him, only to strike back when he least expected it. Another part saw a pathetic man before her, having to sleep in the bed he had made for himself.

"If you do not—" he began. Sensing a threat, she met his gaze, her hands turning into fists as she for once disregarded the mask and showed her true face—that of sorrow and anger. _"Spite does not become you"_ —Melike's words rang through her mind like a warning bell. She could not talk to Braun as she had spoken with Melike.

The only thing left for her was to speak from her heart, albeit not the whole truth. "You have me confused, my lord." Isabella felt her legs grow roots as she anchored herself like a strong tree to the floor. She took courage in herself, not willing to stand down as the towering lord regarded her with the same harsh look.

"Confused?" he scoffed, walking away from the door to meet her. Braun wanted to see her submit to him, to look down and acknowledge him the better man. Then he knew she would always remain in the palm of his hand. He hoped Melike had made her seen how hard harem life would be and that Isabella would turn to him always.

"You took me away from my home, from my land and my family on a horrible journey across the sea—to this strange land. Yet, you have treated me with patience and a semblance of kindness." Braun felt hope at those words, maybe she was showing her gratitude now that they were alone, maybe she would finally reveal her loyalty to him.

But then her expression grew more somber as pain shone through the sorrow that had ruled her gaze. Braun could not ignore how a twinge of guilt coursed through him at that expression. "But you killed my fiancé, and you were proud of it. You plotted against the king, and you were proud of that as well. You have me confused, my lord, for I wonder who is the true Braun; the one who killed Edward, or the one who took care of my back as I lay feverish on that bed from the infection?"

"You cannot choose. I did what I did to survive," he started, the arrogance and pride never leaving him. He had told her of Cullen's demise because it felt good. He had regretted it later, knowing it would only turn her against him. Minutes after setting out from Angloa he already had a plan, a very simple plan. He would take what money he had left and travel to Constantinople; there he would train her and then sell her to the highest bidder—which happened to be Lord Hassan. If Isabella entered the harem, he knew she could eventually gain power in the city, so he understood that he had to treat her with kindness, so that she would not turn against him. He wanted her loyalty finally, to benefit from selling her. Of course, Isabella would never know that she was actually being sold as a slave until it was too late.

"Then, after all the hardships I've had to face because of you, allow me one question, where you will give me a truthful answer. I will know if you are lying, my lord. If you permit me this one request, I will remain faithful to you if I should ever claim favor with the Sultan or the prince—alas, I think it highly unlikely."

They both knew it was a defining moment. Isabella could have asked for anything else or lashed out at him for his poor answer. Yet she demanded a question—something he knew would be difficult to answer. Braun knew he had no honor to his word or name with her, yet she asked him to be truthful. The honesty in her eyes hurt him, and he grew consistently estranged with himself. How could he feel sorry for her when he had felt nothing but hatred against her fiancé? He wished life could have been different and he could have been a better man. But he was not—he took what he wanted and fought only for himself. Yet, he could not deny her request.

"Very well," he said in a guarded tone, alert at what she would say.

"Promise me you will answer truthfully."

The night was falling quickly—darker than they had ever seen before. The moon did not shine that evening, obscured by ominous clouds that threatened to spill droplets onto the city. The air was loaded with tension from the oncoming storm. The metallic smell in the air added to the rising tension between them.

"I will," Braun said through gritted teeth. She must be a witch, was all he could think. For how could she otherwise get him to agree to this request? He reasoned that he needed to satisfy her curiosity. He needed her to be loyal if she was to enter court; as money had run out, his friends had all but left him. Isabella was the only thing he had left—he would practically sell her like a slave to get what he wanted.

"You said you killed my fiancé," her voice trembled as she spoke—thinking of the death of Edward. "Did you kill him during the fight for the palace or after?"

It was Braun's time to be confused, what did it matter if he killed Cullen before or after? He did not wish to tell her Edward was alive, even if it had been a mistake to look like his killer. All she needed to know now was that he was dead—it would remove all hope of being rescued. It would make her more obeying and complying.

"Before," he answered on a whim, lying as best as he could. But Braun never knew the implications that answer meant for her. Isabella quickly put on her mask, hoping he did not see the horror that had invaded her. She felt her pupils grow smaller, her flesh crawl and sweat begin to pearl at her temples. Alas, Braun was blind to the effect his response created in her.

"I... thank you for your honesty." She had seen through his lie. Isabella thought then that Braun had killed Edward after his plot had failed—that he had killed Edward only out of spite. His hatred for her fiancé must have been great and she feared that Edward had suffered a lot.

Isabella stared at Braun and gave him a false smile, channeling the hatred that coursed through her. She was blinded against the double-edged sword. Isabella Swan would make him suffer greatly.

"May I go now?" Her voice was sweet as she asked. Braun seemed less on edge than before—slowly falling for her façade, thinking she would keep her promise of loyalty.

"You may," he said. Isabella curtsied deeply, showing respect before leaving him alone in her room. Before she closed the door, a cruel expression spread on her face as she thought of all the pain she could put him through. The first lightning bolt released in a burst of electricity across the sky as she made her way to meet Hassan and, despite herself, her new life.

 _April 2nd_

Dingy houses with narrower streets crowded as they reached Karid's quarters. The area seemed poorer here. They were the lowly workers of the city, scraping to get by. Most houses looked about ready to fall apart, except one. They stopped in front of the tallest house on the street. It had been newly whitewashed, standing out against the other dirty buildings. The façade had been restored—red and blue bricks lining the windows. The front door had been painted in turquoise. Some greenery hung out of the highest window, crawling down the wall to pool at the muddy ground.

Karid was proud as he showed them the outside of his house. The three of them entered, walking directly into the living area, tied to the kitchens.

"Our next project will be to open a courtyard—every great house should have a courtyard!" Karid said, his hand signaling the dimensions of the image in his head. Three women stood at the end of the room, close to the kitchens. One of them, the oldest, could not drag her eyes off Edward and soon she gave off a loud exclamation of joy. The woman practically ran to him and showered him with affectionate hugs and kisses, before giving him sharp retorts.

"Eleven years! Eleven years! You tell that gypsy to come here so I can give her a piece of my mind! How could you leave without a word?" she cried in her language.

"I am glad to see you as well, Tohin," Edward said in his low voice as he bowed slightly. But the older woman ignored him, only scoffing.

"Ignoring my questions, as always. You have not changed." But she eyed him. Last time Tohin had seen Edward he had been a mere teenager, tall and lanky, still growing into his limbs. She saw a different man now. He did not let the mask rule him anymore, instead, he had made it his own. His body had changed as well. It was a lot stronger, muscles could be seen through the Venetian clothing, even the square jaw was visible through his leather mask.

"But in some other things you have indeed changed," she acknowledged.

"Leave him be, mother!" Karid quipped. "We've no time for your endless talks," he said. Karid turned to Edward. "Nefise married so she doesn't live here anymore. She works for a _lord_ ," he said with pride in his voice as he spoke of his young sister. "Kamil is out but I see that his wife is here," he said, pointing at one of the women, dressed in muted clothes. "And the one next to her is Mehmi's wife, Asul. They married three years ago." The younger woman bore finer clothes in shades of blue. "They have two children that you should meet!"

"We have little time," Edward said. "We need to speak, Karid," he urged.

Karid, carried away by Edward's return turned serious. The harsh captain seemed gone as soon as he had entered the confinements of his house.

Tohin, his mother, grew worried at such words. "Is there something wrong?" she asked, the deep lines in her face growing deeper. Her small eyes widened as her mouth opened, waiting for Edward's response.

"I need your son's help regarding a matter of great urgency. I will tell you as soon as he and I have spoken, I promise," he said, taking her hands in his. Tohin had only seen Edward this worried once before, and it had been the night he had to leave Constantinople, without a word of where and why he was leaving. The old woman went from ecstatic at his presence to concerned. She glanced at the foreigners behind him. "These men are not Venetian, are they," she stated. When Edward gave her no answer the old woman simply nodded. "Fine, Asul, Hafza and I will prepare you a bite to eat while you sit down with my son."

Karid sent his mother a thankful glance before leading the men up some stairs, to the upper floor. "The children are behind the closed door to the left, but they do not understand your foreign tongue, we will be safe from prying eyes or ears here," he said as he led them to another room, at the back of the house.

The room was small and stuffed full of rolled up carpets and old furniture. Light streamed in from closed windows, the shutters broken and barely staying on the hinges. Karid lit several oil lamps, coughing as he stirred the dust that covered the room. Little trinkets in wood or metal covered a shelf on one side. From the ceiling hung various figurines from thin threads, painted in a myriad of colors.

"My brother, Kamil, is crafty with his hands. He sells whatever he makes at the market. These are the pieces no one wanted to buy," Karid explained as he caught view of Carlisle's and Jacob's astonished faces. "Come, here," he showed. A corner was left untouched. He placed a rug on the floor so that they did not have to sit on the dirty wood planks.

"How long did you live in Constantinople?" Jacob blurted out in wonder as he kept staring around in the strange room. He did not realize he had asked a question before it was too late.

"Four years," Edward offered in a curt voice before turning to Karid. "I need your help to find someone, an Angloan who lives in the city," he said, hoping Karid would have some information.

"But why?"

Edward looked down at his crossed legs, staring at his gloved hands. "A few months ago, this person staged a coup against my king, in Angloa. Together with my friends here we managed to stop him. But he escaped, taking my fiancée as a hostage in the process. We followed him as far as Rome, thinking he would seek up someone—but my guess was wrong. The man we suspected had no visible ties to the traitor. However, he did know where he might go next. So, I dragged my companions here, on a last whim, hoping to find my intended."

Karid had narrowed his eyes as Edward told his tale. His eyes bore the same harshness as before. He laced his fingers together, placing them under his chin as he appeared to be thinking. "Who would dare do such a thing," came the dark, angered voice. His accent seemed to make the words graver as Karid got up to pace around the stuffed room. "And you believe this lord to be here now? Why on earth would this westerner run here?"

"Apparently, he was a diplomat—an ambassador, many years ago, and he keeps riches and even a house in the city—guarded for him by powerful friends," Edward said.

Karid snickered at this. "He must not have liked what he saw upon his return. The balance of power is changing in this empire, my friend. It is feared that the Sultan is ill and many think Suleiman, his son, is to take the throne soon. If your friend had a semblance of power all those years ago, his riches must have disappeared when he came here. I even wonder if that house of his remains." Suddenly Karid's expression turned dark. The stout man turned his back on them, showing the tension that coursed through him.

"Unless," he whispered to himself. Edward grew worried as well, starting to have an inkling as to what Karid was referring to.

"You do not think he would sell my fiancée into slavery, do you?"

"What?!" Jacob exclaimed. "Lord Braun would not stoop so low as to actually sell Isabella, would he?"

Karid turned around, his expression seeming to confirm Jacob's words. "Maybe it is not as common in your lands, but here it is a common practice. Pirates will sell slave girls off to the highest bidder. Some end up in whore houses, others in the harem of some mighty Lord. But the most fortunate ones end up in the Royal Harem, and the lucky ones may become mothers to the future sultans." His brown eyes widened. "If your traitor Lord used to have connections in this city, he might be able to sell your fiancée off as a slave to the Royal Harem, catching a hefty price for her."

Edward's presence stiffened the silence. The leather mask seemed—for the first time, to grow features, contrasting his innermost thoughts. The delicately crafted leather piece that hugged his features, only showing his eyes and mouth showed so much more then. The nostrils seemed to flare under the mask, beneath the molded nose that clung to his own. The eyeholes were suddenly too small for the widening eyes as he shook with uncontained anger. His jaw squared and something deep within him emerged—it was the Edward both Jacob and Carlisle had gotten to know during the war. It seemed the creature—the animal that had won the war for Angloa was back, emerged from within his being.

"Braun swore he would make me pay—she will end up in the worst place so that he can get back at me, no matter the price," Edward growled in a voice so low that it sounded like the snarl of a wolf. He got up from the carpet and went to the window, the air in the room had all of a sudden grown too constricting for him. Edward unbuttoned the first button of the red doublet.

"We need to find her," he whispered.

"But Constantinople is big, and your lord might have gone into hiding," Karid stated, surprised at Edward's change in demeanor. He had never seen him in such control of his emotions before, nor had he seen such raw anger in those green eyes.

"But do you not have friends? If we had more people looking it would work faster," Jacob said in a desperate voice. He had worried for Isabella the whole voyage, much like Edward. But now he started realizing just how grave her situation was.

"What about the network?" Edward said, still not turning around to face them—he was not ready yet. He could not let them see the fright and worry that had seeped into his eyes. They could not know the wretched state he found himself in. He kept tensing and relaxing his muscles, unbuttoning yet another button of the doublet, finding it hard to breathe as he thought about her in the arms of another man.

"I haven't used it in years, and they would not trust me now that I am a captain of the guard," Karid sighed, ashamed that he could not be of more help. He saw the defeat in Edward's shoulders as they sank toward the ground, gravity pulling endlessly at them.

Karid snapped his fingers as an idea hit him. "But Kamil might have more luck!" he exclaimed. "He is a craftsman, he was young when we would use the network, but he was intertwined with it. It could be possible," Karid said, staring off into the distance as the plan took form in his mind.

"When you say network, what do you mean? Informants?" Carlisle guessed.

"He means people who could get the word out quickly in this city. It is a network of people who transport anything from information to goods. It is illegal of course, but it has served me and Karid through the years that we lived here. It helped me out of the city when I was forced to leave with Sofia eleven years ago," Edward revealed. "We put the word out that we are looking for a foreigner in the hands of Lord Braun and they will no doubt deliver," he said, liking Karid's idea more and more.

"Where is Kamil?" he turned around and hope had replaced fear and worry.

"Edward, before we continue this I need to know what happened eleven years ago—why you had to leave so abruptly," Karid said, his harsh eyes drilling holes into the masked man. "And I suggest we do so in private." He cast a guarded glance toward Jacob and Carlisle.

He ignored Karid's request for privacy. Edward was impatient to find Isabella. He could feel it—he was close now.

"I should have told you before leaving, but Sofia insisted." The three men before him opened their ears as he started speaking. But all they were offered was a short explanation, barely satisfying their curiosity. It only left them with more questions.

"Sofia killed someone important. She was found out and I took the blame. We were forced to flee before the authorities could take us in and surely behead us both."

A warmth from the oil lamps rose as they flickered, almost uneasy from what they had heard. Jacob shivered at the ease in Edward's voice—for he did not seem bothered by the fact that his guardian had murdered someone. He almost looked as if he wanted to push it aside, his countenance stoic as he spoke. But Carlisle saw more—he saw the shift in Edward's stance and the undertone of grief in his voice as he spoke. From whence he sat, the green orbs of the masked man glittered with regret as his breathing increased.

"I have given you what you wanted," Edward said to a stunned Karid. "Now help me get Isabella back."

* * *

 **A/N: Another week (almost two), another chapter. Thanks for the reviews to chapter 9. I have a section here that is in french (french people, don't be too hard on my french, I did my best!) which says: "Your Majesty, it is a great honor to make your acquaintance." For those of you who were interested in knowing.**

 **The last few chapters have been a little slow, I confess. But only because we're building up to something, which I think you will enjoy. There is some action up ahead soon!**

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you did, don't forget to R &R!**

 **Cheers!**


	11. Chapter 11

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 11_

 _January 3rd, 1489 – Wessport_

The ceremony had been a hasty one. The archbishop had been summoned in the early hours of dawn to the chapel of the castle—a summons at the cathedral would arouse too much curiosity. Once he saw the king standing there with a woman and some witnesses, the bishop understood what was going on. He did, however, not object to the hasty marriage, understanding why it was such a hushed down event. But the time they had given their vows, Magnus had arrived with his wife, Rebecca. Their presence caused tension, for it was evident that they would not take kindly to the marriage, as it was only meant for one thing; to produce an heir. If Philip had a son, Magnus' claim to the throne would be void and he'd have to take it by brute force.

Rumors had already circulated the city the moment the king was seen entering the chapel with so many people in tow. It had been too late to interfere when the prince arrived. The damage was already done.

Rebecca fought hard to hide her scowl as she witnessed the young woman next to Philip's side; the new queen of Angloa.

"He marries a girl, hoping she will bring him any children into this world," Rebecca snarled under her breath. Magnus hushed her, hoping Philip had not heard her remark as he walked past them on the aisle, toward the door to lead his new wife to the chamber. Their marriage was to be consummated immediately.

"If my brother can even _perform_ ," Magnus scoffed as soon as Philip had passed. "Marianne is dead, he has no love for anyone else. That Frenchwoman will help him little in the bedroom," he reassured his wife. "I am not too worried, and neither should you be, Rebecca. Your family still supports us, as well as some of my most powerful friends. What's more, we have an ace up our sleeve ourselves." Magnus tried to calm her down, because he knew to which lengths she was capable of going. He did not know yet, but he suspected she had something to do with Marianne's death. And if that was the case, Magnus feared his wife more than anything in the world. He had little love for his brother, but he did not wish for him to be hurt.

"In a few months we shall see, dear," Rebecca said, watching the strange couple mount the carriage that would take them to the main door of the palace. "Besides— " Her hand went to her stomach. Her pregnancy did not show yet under the masses of robes that hid her belly. But in a few months, it would be protruding. "If we have a son, we could—"

"Don't think of such things now, Rebecca. I will take care of it all," Magnus muttered under his breath.

 _March 15th, 1490 – Wessport_

The young queen stared at the finished needlework. The pattern was all too familiar to her by now. She had stitched that tree at least five times. The cushioned chair was sat by the windows so that she might have better light.

Wessport was gray and cold. The Frenchwoman detested the city, but she never shared her feelings. Her hand went to fetch another piece of linen and fresh needle, so she might start anew.

"Your Majesty, you have been embroidering for the last few hours, might you not wish to do something else?" The sweet voice belonged to Victoria Fell, daughter of Leonore's husband. She was almost ten, yet in her demeanor, there was an awareness only found in a fully mature woman. Victoria thought much like an adult, for whenever she spent time with Rebecca, the older woman would treat the young girl like just that—an adult. It was one of the reasons Victoria liked her so much.

"I've no wish to do anything else," she murmured to herself. Every day waking up was a struggle for her. Being married and still a virgin was laughable. Despite being married for more than a year, Philip had yet to visit her bed. Leonore had known from the start that the king would never love her, his heart would always belong with the late queen. But it still hurt the young woman. The only thing she wished for was comfort and love—she hoped a child might bring that to her. Leonore was still naïve in some aspects; not familiar with the politics of Wessport she could have no idea what bringing a child into the world might mean, for her and for those at court.

"We could visit Lady Rebecca and my cousin, Jasper," Victoria exclaimed. Her sister, Rosalie, ignored her as she played next to the fire.

"We visited them yesterday," Rosalie countered. The younger sister had little against her cousin, but she did not care much for Rebecca. She was only six, but even she could perceive something offsetting about her aunt—something about the woman sent chills down her spine.

Victoria's head snapped to meet her sister. "Well, the laugh of a baby always brings a smile to anyone's face. I believe _mother_ could use some distraction." Leonore did not know if the teasing was well meant or intended to bring offense. But being called mother in such a tone did not sit well with her.

The queen got up, casting away the needlework. "I am not your mother," she said to the girl who was half her age. "I am only your father's wife," she growled. It was no secret that the queen did not feel comfortable in the palace at Wessport. She did little to hide her dislike for Victoria. The oldest child of Philip would many times lull her into thinking they had some kind of friendship, before blatantly throwing insults her way. Leonore supposed Victoria did it because she disapproved of her father's marriage, thinking he had forgotten her late mother. She had lost Marianne at a very tender age, after all. Nonetheless, the queen could not accept such disrespect.

Victoria got up, an eyebrow arched as she stepped out, but not before pushing past the queen. Some ladies in waiting gasped at the foolish act of the girl.

Rosalie stared at the floor, a sour look spreading over the subdued features. "I apologize for my sister. She's stupid and does not understand the consequences of her actions." The six-year-old spoke with words beyond her years. Still only a young princess, she seemed to already start taking on the burdens of being royalty.

"I have nothing against your sister, Your Highness. But I will never tolerate such a show of disrespect again," the queen answered. Even if she was out of her element and uncomfortable in the palace, she still knew of the power and influence she held there. "I will let it slide by this time, but if it happens again I shall speak to your father."

"I understand," Rosalie agreed. Her sister was too flamboyant, too proud—like their father. But, lately, it had gotten worse. Lately, Rosalie felt that Victoria spent too much time with Magnus and Lady Rebecca.

* * *

"Do you know she had the nerve to speak back against me? I am the daughter of a king, while she is only a lowly count's daughter!" Victoria exclaimed as she paced back and forth. "I lament that father does not see this faulty side of Her Majesty," she sneered, finally sitting down. She had run to the only people in the castle that would listen to her after her morning confrontation with Leonore.

Rebecca kept playing with her son, never feeling more accomplished than in that moment. "It is unfortunate indeed, my dear. But do not despair," she halfheartedly tried to comfort her niece. Ever since the death of her mother, Victoria had turned to Rebecca for comfort. The older woman had not liked the role at first, for the moment she gave birth to a son, she almost cast Victoria aside. But Magnus warned his wife that the young princess was still an asset to them.

"There are rumors that my father has not yet visited her chambers," Victoria chuckled as she went to the fires where Magnus sat, reading a book. Rebecca was not surprised at the way she talked about her father's marriage. She had herself hinted at the intimacy between a man and a woman. The young girl spoke without really understanding; what the union between two adults really meant. But she spoke without fear in their presence, always blunt and to the point. Sometimes it scared Magnus just how alike she was to her father.

"Well, my dear, if it continues that way and their marriage is fruitless, I imagine your father will pass the crown to you," Rebecca said, offering an encouraging smile. But she knew in her mind that it was not the case. The moment Philip died, Magnus would claim the throne, for he had sired a son and would no doubt receive more support than Victoria would. But the couple never said this to the princess.

"My father has no wish to pass the crown to me," Victoria scoffed. "He thinks me too proud at times. If anything, he'd rather give it to Rosalie before anyone else." She gracefully glided over the large carpet, over to her cousin. "Or, perhaps, little Jasper would receive the crown," she said in a distant tone. Rebecca smirked at how easy it was to manipulate young children. Years of cooing over the girl started giving fruit as she was in the palm of their hands, not realizing what they were stealing from her.

"I am sure my brother will know the right choice when the time comes." Magnus was alert to his niece. He needed her to at least accept the idea that Jasper could take the throne and not she. Women as rulers were not common, basically not possible. Their country had never seen a queen govern and he doubted very much that Victoria would be the first.

The young princess had no intentions to claim the throne either. "I would rather you or your son be crowned king than the offspring of that Frenchwoman; if she ever has one," Victoria sneered. "For I would never call it my sibling." Her harsh words provoked a sly smile in both Rebecca and Magnus, it seemed her thoughts were in their favor.

* * *

When Rosalie had left her, Leonore had stared at her reflection in the small mirror by her desk. What did her beauty matter if her husband would not even visit her bedside? She pushed the object aside, frustrated with her situation. She was queen, but her life was empty. Leonore figured that if she had a child, her life would have some meaning.

A knock sounded on her door. "Your Majesty?" It was a voice she recognized well.

"Enter," the queen commanded. Athar was quiet as he entered the royal chamber. The man was growing old as well. Ever since the loss of his wife and child he had felt the old age slowly creep into his limbs. Philip would never speak of it, for he was too proud to admit he suffered the aching pains of aging, but Athar voiced it more. He would jokingly complain whenever in the presence of the king. He did the same thing with the queen.

"That you would have an old man open the door for himself," he shook his head and a smirk graced his lips. The goatee was gray, as was his hair. In a few years, Athar was certain he would be left with only white strands. He planned on growing his beard so long that he would be mistaken as a wizard by the children. He always amused himself with scaring the children of the lords that visited the palace, telling stories of what might lurk in the dark corridors of the structure.

Leonore could not help a sad laugh escape her. "My husband is at least twenty years your senior, and yet he does not complain. To what do I have the pleasure of your visit, my lord?"

"Rosalie sent me." When Leonore was about to protest, Athar put up two hands in defense. "She is young and has yet to understand the world she lives in. But the girl perceives much and she worries for you. So I am here, to see if I can be of any service."

He watched the young woman staring at her reflection in the mirror. She saw a beauty of nigh twenty, doubt dulling her features, her whole body tense. "Well, my lord," she knew she could confide in him, to some extent. "Like Rosalie, I am still unfamiliar with a lot of things in this world. I am in a country that is foreign to me and my husband is of an advanced age. I suspect it is not normal for a young wife to have to wait until her marriage to be consummated." She blushed as she stared down at the floor, fiddling with her hands. For the first time, her youth shone through and Athar got a glimpse of the modest and unconfident girl that hid behind the mask of the respectable queen.

He sighed, knowing he could offer few words that would comfort her. "Philip is a complicated man, he has suffered a lot."

"I know that." She was tired of hearing of her husband's suffering. She was at the start of her life, his sorrows should not weigh her down. "I know he could never love me and I accept that. But he married me for a reason." She remained calm as she spoke, but her words were loaded with power.

"I cannot force him to—"

"One child is all I ask, my lord. You may relay that to my husband when you see him next," Leonore said, thus ending their conversation. Athar stood up and bowed deeply, taking into account the wishes of his queen.

* * *

 _April 2nd, 1520 – Constantinople_

The network spread across the city like a spider web, covering each corner of Constantinople. It had been easy putting the word out via Kamil. The young craftsman had been more than eager to help once he got over the shock at seeing Edward again.

Karid had to return to his post later that same day, so Edward and his friends kept inside the house. That same evening, Tohin, Asul, and Hafza prepared a small feast for the starving men. While Edward ate, Tohin would ask him of his travels, and where he now resided. The otherwise quiet man soon started talking like he never had before. Jacob and Carlisle were surprised at the ease he conversed with Tohin as if he were a different man. His eyes glittered and chuckles escaped him whenever she gave sly remarks to his stories.

But the most impressive thing to them all was when Edward spoke of Isabella. They did not understand the language he was speaking in, but they understood of whom he was speaking. His eyes softened behind the mask and the usual arrogant or stoic look in them was gone. It was replaced by something else. His voice grew warmer when he thought of her and the tension in his body washed away.

Sitting by his side at the small table Tohin sighed loudly. "To be young and in love," she whispered, letting the loaded word float through the air. Edward nearly dropped his spoon and coughed.

"Love?!" he exclaimed. Tohin chuckled as his eyes grew wide at the word.

"Love Edward—that is what you feel for that woman, isn't it?" she asked, expanding her arms to show the grandeur of the word.

"I do not think that is what I would call it…that…" he trailed off as his heart started beating hard in his chest. It could not be love, he thought. He thought himself incapable of such feelings. He did not wish to open up his heart that much to Isabella.

Tohin snickered at him, sighing as she went to button the last button of his red doublet in a motherly way. "That is what I see when you speak of her. But I cannot tell you what you feel—you must figure that out for yourself," she said, her small brown eyes stared into his radiant green ones as she patted his cheek. "But do not lie to yourself too long," came her stern voice.

The door to the living area and kitchen swung open, a young man stepped in, dragging in the dust and waft of spices and fields from the street. He bore his black hair cropped close to the scalp, his head bare and a simple vest over a dirty chemise. His loose pants bloomed out and puffed at his ankles. The colors of his clothes were muted, as he could not afford the lavish and expensive dyed cloths. His sunburnt face turned to the small group eating by the table far off to one side, squeezed in between the various pots and other alien furniture. Stern brown eyes scoured the room for someone. Kamil's eyes lit up as he saw the masked man once more.

"They might have found her." The sentence was short but loaded, fired off like an arrow in the room. Edward's spoon fell out of his hand as he got up from his seat—the chair scraping against the floor as it was pushed aside.

"Where," he demanded, long strides took him across the room to Kamil, who had just closed the door after him. Both men went to a small sofa as Tohin scurried after them. At the sign of curiosity in her faded features, Carlisle and Jacob followed, unsure of what was taking place.

"Do you think they found her?" Jacob whispered to Carlisle, not understanding any of the words that were being spoken before them.

"It seems that way," came the tense response. This was what they had been waiting for. "We have only three days left until the ship leaves without us, we better hope they found her," Carlisle murmured under his breath.

"Where did they see her?" Edward asked, leaning forward so that he might catch every last word from the young man before him.

"They were not sure it was her. But a servant has confirmed a young brunette foreign woman to be living in the tower of some nobleman, who happens to be Angloan."

"Then it must be her," Edward said, sure of it.

"Easy now," Tohin began, sitting down next to her friend. "We need to confirm that it is indeed whom you seek."

"Very well, I shall go and have a look myself," Edward said, getting up from the sofa, waiting for Kamil to show him the way.

"It is not that easy, my friend. I hate to say it, but just like eleven years ago, your mask will no doubt attract much-unwanted attention. You have both your friends here, who know her as well. Send them in your stead." Kamil spoke with wisdom in his words, a wisdom that Edward lacked, blinded by his worry for Isabella. He was so close, yet so far.

"Jacob and Carlisle?" he exclaimed. Both men looked up at the mention of their names. "How can I send them in my place?"

"What are you speaking of?" Carlisle asked. Edward turned to face him, a frustrated expression briefly touching his eyes. He gripped the handle of the door and took a deep breath, recollecting his thoughts. He knew Kamil was right. Braun or his guards would instantly know something was amiss if a masked man appeared at their doorstep. He cursed under his breath.

"They might have found her, but I cannot go myself to confirm that it is Isabella…" he trailed off. He wanted to say that it was due to the mask but the words never left him. Edward was ashamed that his mask had become such an obstacle.

"Then we will go in your place," Jacob said, ready to burst out of the door. A hand came to stop him as Carlisle walked past him.

"I suspect it isn't that easy, Jacob," Carlisle murmured. His jaw squared as he saw the look in Edward's eyes; the anger and despair that showed through. The mask was in place but he could still read the expression in those eyes like an open book. The stoic and rational demeanor was completely gone and it seemed irrationality wanted to rule in its stead. It seemed Jacob caught wind of Edward's state.

"Oh," Jacob said, his voice growing muted as he understood the situation Edward found himself in. He had sailed half a world away to save his fiancée and now he couldn't even go see her himself.

Kamil, unaware of what the Angloans were speaking of, turned to Edward instead. "The same servant can sneak them into the tower to speak with her, but only for a few minutes during the morning. The guards are always away at that time and her caretaker leaves her before her tutor comes. It could work if they went, in disguise," he said, looking at Jacob and Carlisle.

Edward's brow furrowed and he went to sit down with a heavy sigh. He already knew the outcome—Jacob and Carlisle would speak with Isabella and he wouldn't be there.

A long silence passed where Edward could not decide. He stared at the dirty floor, taking in the muted sounds filtering in through the cracks of the door.

"Fine, make the preparations," he said in Turkish. "Jacob and Carlisle, you will go in my stead," Edward said with defeat in his eyes. "It is the only way without arising suspicion." He knew there was no other way, but never had such a decision weighed him down before.

"Then tomorrow I will take them to the tower. The rest is up to the servant girl and them," Kamil said, giving Edward a pat on the shoulder as he disappeared again.

Tohin arched an eyebrow as she saw his lowered head. "Love," she whispered, mostly to herself. But Edward heard those words. He suddenly sprung up, reaching for a cloak with a hood and pulled it over his frame.

"I will return before you leave," he muttered, walking out of the door, leaving the bunch standing, all confused at the strange exchange that had just taken place.

 _April 1st_

"I can bring you with me right now if that is what you wish. You are not obliged to stay here anymore," Hassan said with a glee on his features. Something in Isabella spoke to wait. She remembered the saying "better the devil you know than the devil you don't". She had no idea who Hassan was and where he was taking her. But, deep within her, something pulled. The universe spoke to her, told her that it was not yet time.

"How can I be sure that you will take me where you say?"

He seemed almost offended at the blunt question. "I am reminding you that I am doing you a favor by even being so courteous. Let me remind you that your Lord Braun is _selling_ you. As a slave you should have no right to speak nor ask questions," he stated in a grave voice. But then he put his hands up, as if in defeat. "But I am a generous man. I am taking you where I said—my connections have given you an opportunity for a brilliant future. You will be taken to the Royal Harem, to become a woman of the Sultan."

"Of course." Isabella curtsied slightly. "Then perhaps you will give me a few days to prepare for this journey. I feel overwhelmed by such good news," she said in her sweetest voice. Hassan seemed convinced for the smile only spread on his features.

"I understand your willingness to leave this place. Be happy that you are finally leaving. Even if Braun receives the money, he will not last long here. His reach in Constantinople is drying up as most of his old friends and connections are gone," Hassan revealed. Isabella could not help but arch an eyebrow.

"Then I am most fortunate," she said carefully—not wanting to give him her personal opinion on the matter. It was too early to trust Hassan with her specific thoughts on Braun. However, she was happy to hear that he was nearing his ruin, it was more than he deserved.

"In two days hence, before the sun sets, I shall return and deliver you to the harem in my personal palanquin," he smiled before saying his goodbyes.

Isabella stared as he left. There was something unnerving with the whole situation. What if Hassan was taking her somewhere worse? She had no qualms about leaving Braun and his people behind, but she worried where she might end up next.

There was no need to inform Braun of what had just transpired. As she left the courtyard, she could see his form slithering in the shadows—watchful of her every move.

 _April 3rd_

Jacob readjusted his tunic one final time, scratching as the constricting turban squeezed his head. His otherwise clean-shaven face was now dotted with a false mustache and beard, the same dark shade as his hair, hiding under the dark maroon turban. Carlisle wore similar clothes. Both felt out of place as two men led them through Constantinople.

Carlisle and Jacob looked like they belonged there for the first time. They did not receive the strange looks as they trekked through the narrow streets of the city. They could enjoy taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the place.

It was early morning on a market day. People placed carts in front of their houses, mounted the tents that would shield them and their products from the sun. Some street musicians had already started playing, hoping to catch a few coins before the day was over. There were more guards present in the city than previous days. Karid had warned them which streets they should keep away from—in case the guards decided to randomly stop them for inspection.

Edward had kept awake the whole night. He could not step outside on such a day, for he would surely attract attention amongst the market goers. Rumors—Tohin said—spread like wildfire in Constantinople. If word got out about a masked foreigner wandering the streets, even the most remote and closed off homes would hear of it. If the lord keeping the young woman was Lord Braun, he would no doubt flee as soon as he caught wind of Edward's presence.

Edward had stayed back, sharpening his sword. The motion was a monotonous one but it calmed him. He was nervous, which was understandable. For someone being so specific on how things should be executed, it was hard to leave all the responsibility to others—even if they were his most trusted companions. Carlisle had assured him that all would end well before they had left. Edward had given them no words of courage, just a look that still haunted them as they walked in silence. He had put his complete trust and faith in them and they felt the burden of that on their shoulders.

They began walking up one of the hills of the city. As the song of the seagulls reached from the docks, Carlisle and Jacob felt their stomach stir—it was almost time.

Kamil had gone with them—a familiar face was always welcome when in a strange place. But there were two other men with them—barely at the age to be called men yet. They knew the location of where Isabella might be kept. Kamil barely knew any words of English and Jacob and Carlisle had no skill at all in his language, so communication was limited.

One of the boys pointed at a structure in the distance. It rose up amongst the other lavish houses that surrounded it. This was a richer part of the city. The tower was round in shape, built out of light stone. It reached for the sky and hugged one rectangle building in a darker stone. A narrow street separated the other houses; lower in roof. Yet, it looked almost as if the tower and those terracotta tiled roofs were a mere silver from touching each other. At its top was a small balcony, rounding the structure. Only a modest metal fence sealed it off, so that the watcher might not fall to his death. They could see blue curtains in a sheer fabric blow gently in the breeze.

Kamil turned to them. He did not speak, but in his eyes, they knew that they had arrived.

"So how do we enter?" Jacob turned to Carlisle.

"One of our guides should know a servant here who will let us in through the kitchens," Carlisle whispered as they casually grazed the street in front of the house. The tall red doors looked intimidating as they towered over them.

Suddenly, a palanquin came down the western street, stopping just by the house. A servant opened the box and out stepped a very familiar man; Braun. Carlisle had to restrain Jacob, who on mere impulse went to attack the traitor. "Control yourself," Carlisle hissed. But the darkness in his clear eyes hinted that he too held a great amount of despise for the lord.

Jacob stared in disbelief as Braun entered the house, the red doors swallowing him as he disappeared behind them. They had noticed his thinning face and bloodshot eyes from where they stood. His manner had been agitated, as if he were nervous. Maybe he knew they were coming?

Kamil looked at their reaction. There was no doubt; the Angloans knew that man who had just walked into the building. It meant that they had probably found the right place. "You!" he said in a casual voice to one of the boys who had taken them there. He placed a coin in his hand as he spoke. "Take them to your friend and I will give you another coin when you return.

The boy stared at him and then bit the coin to make sure it was real. He then nodded, walking toward the vast house. Kamil made a motion for Carlisle and Jacob to follow him. His part of the job was done and now he could only watch as the two men walked away, hoping to bring back with them someone he knew very little about.

* * *

Isabella had been left alone for the morning, as usual. The first call to prayers had sounded just over two hours ago from the tall towers of the city. She was amazed at how used she had become to the bizarre new twists in her life.

Her morning lessons were over and it would be an hour or so before Melike came to take her down for her courtyard walk. Isabella sat in front of the mirror, dressed in her fine clothes. Today was the day that she would finally leave Braun. It was the true beginning of the end for him. The moment she left his house he would not last long with her as a bargaining chip in his hands. The money she would bring him would run out, or so she hoped. She stared at the alien face in the mirror.

The visage before seemed changed. Her face had tanned—her once pure and white skin was gone as she had been kissed by the rays of the sun. She had slimmed down, her bone structure defined and the form of her body more pronounced than before. The chocolate eyes that looked back at her looked foreign, as if they knew a secret she didn't. Isabella was shocked at the physical changes her stay in Constantinople presented. She unleashed her curls from their pins and started brushing her hands through them. The incense that burned by the window dispersed in the room as the wind kept entering, uninvited. She had a mind to close the opened doors, but having the sky just outside of her room reminded her of the freedom she had once lost.

Isabella wondered if she would have the same freedom away from her tower. The orbs looked back at her with an emptiness that unsettled her.

Suddenly the door burst open and a servant stepped in. Isabella got up from her seat, flustered as she was caught by surprise.

"How dare you enter this room without knocking? I should—" she silenced herself once two men burst past the servant. Isabella took a step back, fright rising inside her at the prospect of two complete strangers in her presence.

They made no hasty move to approach her, instead, a baritone voice spoke in calm words. She could only hear bits and pieces of it. The sound of her own blood rushing through her ears canceled out any other prevalent noise. Isabella felt her world spin and her body tremble as she recognized both men before her.

Carlisle and Jacob heard her draw a deep, shaky breath before she did anything else. The mirror in her hand was still pressed tight against her chest, as if the last defense. They could not believe it was her.

Jacob wanted to shout and cry in happiness as he saw her stand before him, unharmed by the looks of it. The heavy smell of incense wafted through the air as the chatter of the street was dulled. Isabella looked different, in many ways. She looked hardened—her eyes bore more secrets and sorrows than they had before.

Carlisle stepped forward, putting up a calming hand—reaching for her. "Isabella, it is I, Carlisle," he said in a soothing voice. But she withdrew from him, as if he were a specter. Jacob stepped forth with more resolve and tore off the false beard, showing her his whole face.

"And Jacob—your friend, Jacob. We've come here to take you home," he said, reaching to embrace her.

A sudden pain shot through her at the sight of them. Isabella knew that her worries had ended, she did no longer have to worry about her uncertain future. She could finally rest and let them take her across the sea, back to her motherland.

But…

She looked into their eyes. Both looked so certain that she would cast it all aside and follow them. Isabella wanted nothing else, she was sick of being tired and afraid. But the shadow of uncertainty always seemed to loom close.

This time it took mortal form.

She perceived someone listening in on their conversation. Her breath caught in her throat. Her prison seemed to extend into every aspect of her being. Not even now—before her friends—could she speak truthfully. She wondered who the servant would report to. If it was Melike, Isabella was certain she would only get away with a whipping. But if it was Braun, she feared what he might do if he found that Jacob and Carlisle were here, right in the most protected part of his house.

Her tense shoulders dropped in defeat as she made her decision. "You should go," she whispered in a harsh voice. Jacob's smile froze on his face as it quickly faded away. Carlisle stared at her in slight horror.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I have no wish to go with you." The mask resurfaced, however hard she found it to say those words. Every part of her being wanted to scream 'save me, take me with you'. But what would happen if they walked out of that room, only to encounter guards that would question the two men that accompanied her?

She would never survive the death of Carlisle and Jacob. Not when they reminded her so of Edward.

"Isabella," Jacob tried, placing his hands on her shoulders. But all he received were empty eyes. He never saw the internal struggle behind them, the shaking that threatened to reveal her.

"Listen to me, Jacob, Carlisle," she began in a smoother voice. "I am glad you came here to bring me back, nothing pleases me more than to know that I can count on such good and loyal friends. But there is little left for me back in Angloa—." Isabella had to stop to look away as her voice broke at the thought of Edward.

She wrenched herself free of Jacob's light grip and walked over to the window. "How can I return when Edward is no more?" she asked. The young woman did not wish for them to see the defeated look and sorrow that now touched her features.

Carlisle and Jacob gave each other confused glares. Did she not wish to go because Edward was not there? That could not be the case.

"What are you implying?" Carlisle asked in a careful manner.

"Do not play games, Carlisle," Isabella said as she turned around, the broken mask once more mended. "I know Edward fell in battle with Braun." The words shot through her like raw pain. But she ignored them. "I…know he is…dead."

Suddenly it made sense to them. Braun must have thought he killed Edward with his final blow, or he had lied to Isabella—making her believe her fiancé was really dead. "Oh, Isabella," Carlisle lamented. He could not imagine what she must have gone through, thinking the man she cared for was truly gone.

"He is not dead," Jacob said, ignoring the nervous servant who kept insisting that they go.

Isabella trembled at his words. Her hope suddenly spiraled up at the prospect of Edward being alive. But what if Jacob only said those words so that she would go with them? She wanted to desperately believe that he was telling the truth. But if he was, then where was Edward?

"I cannot come with you," she said more forcefully, but the look she gave him spoke otherwise. "I must stay." The words came off as unfeeling, almost robotic.

"Do you know what Braun will do with you if you stay?" Carlisle lashed out, never having caught the look she sent Jacob. Before he could stop him, Carlisle continued. "He will sell you off like a slave to the highest bidder—"

"I know," came the tense reply. "I have known since we arrived here." Isabella kept glancing at the spying shadow, hoping she sounded convincing enough.

Carlisle pushed his way past Jacob, staring at her in disbelief. "You knew? And yet you wish to stay here? As Jacob said, Edward is alive! He could not come because—"

"I have to stay. Tonight, before the sun sets Lord Hassan will take me to the Royal Harem where I most likely will become a concubine. I have made peace with my fate, and I wish you would too," she said, stepping in to embrace Jacob. As she did she pressed her mouth to his ear, the words barely audible as she spoke them. "If Edward is alive, I wish to see him desperately." When she stepped away she gave him a stiff smile.

Carlisle was about to lash out at her when Jacob stopped him, understanding what was happening. "If Miss Swan wishes to stay, there is little we can do to convince her, Carlisle. She obviously doesn't believe Edward is still alive, or she has chosen to neglect him. So why would she come when it appears a more exciting future is in store for her?" Jacob spoke with anger lacing his voice.

A small blink followed. It was the only evidence that assured her that he had understood her message.

"Please take them out the same way you came from," she said as she turned to the servant woman. The young servant, almost collapsing from her nerves, was more than willing to get out of that room.

Carlisle had to practically be dragged out. "If you do not come with us, I will not be held responsible for the havoc that ensues as he comes for you," he protested as he watched Isabella turn her back on them before the door was closed shut.

In the hallway, they stumbled upon a woman who had shamelessly been listening to their whole conversation. It was only then that Carlisle started to have a semblance of understanding as to what was going on.

When the door opened once more, Isabella had collapsed to the floor, clutching her mirror close to her chest as she tried to control her rapid breathing.

Cynical applauds sounded behind her as a low, mocking laugh followed. "What an amazing performance," came the low tone of Melike. Isabella turned around in horror as she realized it was she who had been spying on them.

"You made the right decision. Had you gone with them the guards now patrolling the entire house would have soon found you and probably slaughtered you all," she said in an amused tone. "Oh, how they must despise you. After having come all this way to only have you reject them," she laughed taking delight in seeing the wretched woman before her.

"Out," Isabella growled. When Melike didn't listen she stood up herself, ready to throw the woman out of her room.

"I will lock you in for the rest of the day until Lord Hassan comes. I still do not trust that you will keep your word," she said, dangling the keys that would soon barre the door to her freedom once and forever. Isabella watched as the keys swayed back and forth, sensing her fate had been sealed forever.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for the support and reviews I am receiving lately! Thrilled that you are liking it so far. Now, get ready for some intense stuff for the following chapters! Please let me know what you think by leaving a review.**

 **A side note: you guys do remember that the whole Philip and Leonore storyline is something that has already been mentioned, right? It was what Athar spoke about in the dungeon when Edward went to visit him in chapter 18 of the last fic. I know there are so many details to remember but I suggest you reread that chapter knowing what you know now. I think that chapter will become clearer to you then :)**

 **As always, cheers!**


	12. Chapter 12

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 12_

 _August 6th, 1492 – Wessport_

"Almost three years of marriage and that frog is still barren. It seems God is smiling down at us," Rebecca spoke openly to her ladies. Victoria was among the people sitting in the garden, under a big oak tree. They sipped on their mulled wine and ate their sugared fruits. She remained silent as Rebecca continued to speak ill of Leonore.

The other ladies cackled away, agreeing with whatever the wicked woman would say. The power had slowly started to shift in the palace. Jasper Fell had started walking and proved to be a feisty young boy, eager to explore and learn as much as his little mind could handle. It did not help that Philip had started showing signs of fatigue. Magnus was starting to make his move, urging his followers to be ever present in the palace.

A few days earlier, Victoria had spoken to her father. She had tried to convince him to cast aside the Frenchwoman. The princess felt it was torture to Leonore to keep her at court when he would not even touch her. She had received a harsh lecture from him. Victoria had finally exclaimed that she hoped he would not have another child for she would not want to see that child on the throne. Jasper, or even she, was more suited for such an ordeal. Philip had stood up and almost screamed that he would die before he gave his brother or Jasper the throne. He was not too keen on ever passing on the crown to Victoria either. The princess had stormed away in tears.

But, unbeknownst to the ladies, Athar had managed to coax the wary king outside for an afternoon walk. They just so happened to be passing by when Rebecca threw the ghastly remarks out there about his wife. Philip, more fatigued than usual, still found the strength to want to give his sister in law a piece of his mind.

But Athar stopped him. "The best thing you can do is to prove them wrong. Visit your wife tonight, Sire!" he exclaimed, only for the king to hear.

"You know I have tried several times these past few months. But it is futile," Philip sighed.

"You have to try and try until it wears you down."

"What a hypocrite you are. You would not remarry when your own love passed."

"Because I am not the ruler of a nation! Do you realize what would happen if you passed away without an heir? Your wife would be cast away by Magnus as he takes the throne. I believe Victoria would be safe but Rosalie would no doubt be put into a convent. Rebecca would have free access to the riches of the land and dry it up. Everything you've improved, everything you've worked for would be gone like dust in the wind in the course of a few years. You owe it to Leonore and to Angloa to at least conceive a child."

"I have few years left in me, Athar. I can feel it-as if I am an empty shell. The fatigue is overwhelming at times, I lose my appetite and sleep. I could only father one child and see it grow. If it is a girl…it would have been for naught," he lamented.

"But you would give Leonore some happiness. And if you father a son, an heir, her future would be safe," Athar smiled.

"If she has a son, I fear what Magnus would do. His greed and lust for power have corrupted his mind." The king could do little. He had waited too long and was too old and weary to openly fight his brother.

Despite his worries, Philip decided to venture to his wife's chambers later that night. He was decided. What he did, he did for his wife and country. He owed that much to her. Leonore was surprised to see the old monarch enter her room. He had seen her before, visited her chamber before. But the moment she had undressed he had excused himself, saying he could not go forth.

This time, the young woman cast away her clothes quickly, her face never showing the fear she felt. Philip started putting out the lights as she climbed naked into bed. He joined her. Both were nervous for different reasons.

When Leonore felt him hesitate and slipping away, she rapidly spoke in a gentle manner. "If it pleases Your Majesty, you may think of me as your late wife."

"I would not disrespect you," he murmured in her ear.

Leonore grabbed the sheets, trying to relax under him. "If it is what it takes, then I allow it." He had never heard her so determined before. Philip understood then that her want of a child was so strong that the woman would endure anything. He slowly started kissing her, preparing her for their lovemaking.

He closed his eyes and imagined it was Marianne that lay under him. When she shuddered at his touch, Philip entered her. A painful moan escaped her. She had never known it would hurt so. The movements he made put great strain on him and soon the old king was gasping for air as his heart rate soared. But when Leonore whispered loving words in his ear, it helped him. The image of Marianne grew stronger until he reached climax.

His form collapsed on hers and Leonore stared up at the roof, a frown touching her features.

 _August 23rd, 1492 – Wessport_

There came a point when it was even hard for Philip to walk. His health was failing him at such an alarming rate that many believed he would not last the summer.

Rebecca and Magnus had started plotting to such an extent that it even reached the queen's ears. She was horrified to hear what their goal was. Her closest confidant, who had come with her from France—Lady Claudine, would spy for her every so often.

"It seems we are backed into a corner, Majesté," Claudine spoke one evening when they found themselves alone in her chambers.

"Surely Magnus' ascension to the throne will not be tolerated," she tried to comfort herself.

"They will claim that since they have a son, he would, in turn, inherit Magnus' kingdom. You and His Majesty have yet to—" Claudine stopped herself when she saw Leonore blush.

"And what would happen if I had a child?"

"Hypothetically, of course." Claudine was someone Leonore trusted with all her might. But if she were pregnant, she wondered if she would even tell her.

"Of course."

"If it is a daughter it would be exiled with you back to your family seat in France." The words brought some hope to Leonore. But Claudine's features darkened as she continued. "If it is a son, Lady Rebecca and His Highness, Magnus, would openly do little—from what I've heard. But I would not be surprised if the child were to suddenly disappear. It has been done before. If you give birth to a male heir, he will come in between them and ultimate power, which is not acceptable. They will dispose of him, as quietly as they can."

Leonore turned gray at those words. Her heart rate sped up and bile rose in her throat. To think that someone could do something so awful.

"But you have no child, nor are you pregnant. If His Majesty passes away, you will only be sent away yourself." Claudine went to take Leonore's hands in her own. "Your suffering will end then, you will be gone from all of this!"

"What if I were pregnant when my husband passed?" Leonore's face was pale.

"I suspect they would make you stay in the palace until the child is born, thus determining what gender it is and then deal with it accordingly."

For the first time, Leonore regretted having lain with Philip. She did not yet know if their union had born fruit. But now she had no wish to bring a child into the world, not when its life was at risk.

* * *

 _April 3rd, 1520_

 _11:36 AM_

"We cannot tell Edward," Carlisle kept repeating to himself as they rushed back with Kamil emptyhanded. The mission had failed, for Isabella was not with them. Just after, they had stood watching that tower in disbelief. "We cannot tell Edward." Kamil had asked them in Turkish what had happened, but they did not understand. "Edward will do something stupid." Only as they had gotten out of that horrible place did he realize her predicament.

When they had been lead through the ornate corridors, he had perceived the cold emptiness of the place. It did not have the feeling of home to it. And in every wall, there seemed to be whispers of sorrow and regret floating through. Carlisle shivered as he thought of Isabella being trapped in such a place. They had been lucky that no guards had seen them nor stopped them, but tempting fate a second time would not be as easy.

"How will we get her out before twilight?" Jacob kept asking himself. How could he face Edward empty handed?

Carlisle came to a brusque halt, gripping Jacob by both shoulders. "We need more time. We cannot return without her or Edward, blinded by his rage for Braun and his love for Isabella, will barge through those doors, taking down as many men as he can before falling to his death himself."

"His shoulder has almost healed," Jacob trailed off. "But could he manage a fight with Braun this time?"

Carlisle leaned against the wall in the alley, feeling the turban squeeze his head as he tried to think. "If we get Isabella away from there, Braun will set out after her the first thing he does. We need a quick and safe way out of the city," Carlisle started as he began putting a plan together. He suddenly turned to face Kamil and motioned for pen and paper. Kamil looked around them and shrugged his shoulders as if asking 'Where would I get that?'

Time was precious, so the three of them went out to find writing material. Carlisle would write Edward to get them some horses and wait for them outside of Constantinople, just by the gate they had entered. He was sure that Karid could be of help in that department.

They were in luck as he wandered the merchant stalls of the upper-class neighborhood. Carlisle fished around his pocket and paid the man for the paper and quill. He sat down close by the stand and began writing. He stated the urgency in the letter, hoping Edward wouldn't notice that something was amiss. If all turned out alright, Isabella would soon be on that ship heading back to Rome.

Carlisle folded the letter and turned to Kamil. "I know you cannot understand me right now. But this letter is of great importance," he said in slow and steady words as he handed the folded letter to the young craftsman. Kamil accepted the paper with trembling hands, understanding the urgency of the situation.

"Edward," Carlisle said as he pointed to the letter. He received a quick nod before Kamil rushed off toward his house. When the Ottoman had rounded the corner, Carlisle turned to Jacob.

"What will we do in the meantime?" Jacob asked.

"We need a ladder," Carlisle said after a long pause. "A really tall one," he added after a pensive look touched his face.

 _12:02 PM_

Edward read the letter three times before getting out of his seat. Tohin kept tailing him, asking him about the contents of said letter. Kamil walked by his side, asking as well.

"Kamil, I need you to find Karid and bring him to me," the low growl emerged.

"What did the letter say? Your companions seemed quite agitated as they left the tower. I have never seen someone act in such a way before. It was most peculiar—"

"Oh hush, boy. Can't you see that he is thinking?" Tohin finally exclaimed. "You remind me of your father sometimes—may he rest in peace. He would not stop asking questions as well. Now run along and get your older brother!"

Edward had put on the cape and pulled the hood over his masked face when Tohin came to stop him. "And where are you going?" the old woman demanded in fervent tones.

"I need horses," Edward said tersely.

"You cannot go out, not now," she said, referring to Edward being found out by Lord Braun.

"I know, but who else will get me the horses? It will be too late by the time Karid gets here. I need them outside of the city by twilight," Edward explained.

"I will!" Tohin exclaimed. She never saw the look of disbelief on Edward's face, which was for the better.

"Do you know anything about horses? Do you know a healthy one from a sickly one? Will they even take you seriously, even with a fat bag of coins in your hand? I am sorry, Tohin, I have no time to spare—"

"The moment a tall man shrouded in the confinements of his hood comes to bargain for four horses he will raise suspicion. Not only will the guard arrest you, but some might even remember you from your time here, eleven years ago. What will you do then? I will bargain for the horses and you will listen to me for once and stay here, Edward. This is a place where you have no say or no power, do you hear?"

She could tell from his body language that every fiber of him disagreed with her. But Edward was wise and did as she bade. He understood that his pride would only get him in trouble. He never admitted out loud to her that he agreed. Instead, the masked man stepped aside, allowing her to go out the door. Tohin placed the veil over her head as she left her house, praying that she would be successful in her endeavor.

He stared as the door closed and his fist found the wall before the dust in the room had settled once more. The foundation shook as his hand impacted with the frail surface. The women watched him in silence, afraid to near the aggressive man. Edward remembered to control his feelings and went back up to the storage room, waiting for Karid to return.

 _5:14 PM_

They were hours away from dusk, hours away before Isabella got taken away for good. Carlisle understood that once she entered that palace, the probability of rescuing her diminished.

They had acquired a ladder, after the help from Kamil, who had returned after sending the letter and retrieving his brother. Constantinople reflected their state of being; a nervous chaos that only seemed to grow as the sun traveled west on the sky. The chatter grew in force and became unbearable. The once quaint narrow streets now felt suffocating as they loomed over the three, walking in hurried steps and dragging the ladder behind them.

Their fear had stemmed from a letter that Karid had sent them. The English was barely tangible, but it was readable enough for them to make out the meaning. He had managed to get Edward out of the capital, but not before a few citizens spotted the mask which he bore. Karid feared that the rumors would now quickly spread and that they would have reached every corner of the city before nightfall.

After every careful precaution they had taken, it seemed everything worked against them. As the three walked with the brittle ladder through the streets, the Angloans grew paranoid of being observed. What if Braun already knew they were there? Maybe he had already sent Isabella away. But, alas no, they did not wish to believe such things, yet. Jacob insisted they keep hope up, for soon they would be bound home for Angloa and for a time of peace, finally.

"Edward will not get to kill Braun," Jacob murmured as they rounded another corner, following Kamil in hurried steps. His fake beard was itchy against his skin and he longed to tear it off again.

"Maybe Lord Glovendale can get his hands on him and bring him to trial. Braun is still a traitor, the Ottomans might give him over."

"Do you really believe that?" Jacob asked. "Do you want that?"

"No," came the answer. Carlisle's voice dropped a few tones. "I feel almost disappointed that we did not get to see him lay dying by our blades," he growled. Braun had caused so much misery at court. Many good men, including Linahan, had died because of him.

"I am disappointed as well," Jacob answered in the same dark tone. He thirsted for blood and justice. He wondered just how much Braun was behind, how much damage the lord had done throughout the years.

Kamil stopped, putting up a hand for them to stop as well. They had reached to tower once more, but now it seemed it was under better surveillance. Guards now stood by its foot, guarding it the whole way around.

"How are we supposed to climb up?" Jacob whispered under his breath, dismayed at the amount of fierce-looking men, sporting curved swords and light armor. It seemed Braun housed a small army inside that house of his.

They turned to Kamil with questioning looks on their faces. But he only shrugged his shoulders, the young man felt as helpless as them. This was a time when they needed Edward's guidance—and he was outside of the city.

"I was too proud to think I might do this without Edward, after all," Carlisle cursed. "And now I have doomed Isabella!" His voice wavered as he realized the gravity of his mistake.

"Braun is the one who has doomed her. He was the one who kidnapped her and tried to brainwash her into believing Edward dead. I still think she believes it." Jacob could not ignore the small flame of hope that had soon faded in her chocolate eyes. She—who had once exposed her emotions like an open book—was now as enigmatic as Edward with his mask. He had seen her mask falter at times, but she had always braved it on and replaced it.

"Imagine how it must feel to think you have lost someone. She must fear the prospect of losing him a second time," Carlisle mumbled. "And to know that you will be sold off to a man you've barely met…" He shuddered at what would be in store for her if they did not act fast. If Edward ever found out what Braun had had in mind for her—how he had planned to use her, there would be nothing on Earth that would stop the masked man before he tore every limb from the traitor's body. He would've enjoyed watching that immensely—to see Braun beg and cry for his life as Edward went berserk on him.

"Even so, we must get her out of there before twilight, Carlisle!" Jacob kept a look on the guard. "Perhaps one of us can distract them while the other secures the ladder against the tower and climbs up to get her?"

"It might work. I don't suppose you want to distract them then?" Carlisle muttered. When he received no answer, only innocent eyes and a charming smile, he sighed. "Very well."

 _5:58 PM_

Servants dressed the young girl ceremoniously. As each garment wrapped around her body, she felt like armor was being secured to her frame. Her eyes sent daggers to Melike as the woman sneered at her from where she stood. Ankle-length trousers in a fine light pink muslin called şalvar draped her legs. A long-sleeved shift of a seersucker gauze reached down to the heels and protected her body—she imagined it was her chainmail. A long-sleeved cardigan in pure white silk and thin robes in pale blue. known as kaftan, were placed over. Open in the front and lacking any trimming, the fullness of the skirts of these robes was increased by the addition of narrow godets from the waist down. She stood completely still, ignoring the lack of comfort as the servants dragged at the garments to secure them to her. The final touch was the sheer veil, loosely draped over her head and accented with small pearls along the edge of the trimming.

"You finally look like one of _them_ ," Melike said. But she didn't seem all that pleased. "Leave us," the Ottoman woman demanded in a harsh tone. It did not take long before the women left the room, whispering amongst themselves as they left the brunette alone with Melike.

"In a few hours Hassan himself will come to take you with him," Melike started. Isabella knew she was to receive another harsh lecture. She had no wish to be mocked anymore by the enigmatic woman with the light eyes.

"I know." Their small conversation was tense and felt unnecessary. So why did Melike even bother speaking with her now that she was about to leave this house forever?

"What is the last thing you wish to do here before you leave?" The question was sudden and felt out of place. Isabella wondered if it was some sort of trick. She hesitated before answering, not wanting to reveal what she really wanted—which was to give Melike a taste of her own medicine.

"I would have wished to see a remnant of my old life one last time."

"We threw away that horrible dress, it was soiled by the sins you carried with you into this house."

"You once told me, hanim, that revenge is like a double-edged sword," Isabella said suddenly, steering Melike away from speaking ill of her past.

The older woman rose her eyebrow. "Have you discovered, then, this sword?" Isabella noticed almost a hint of curiosity as to what her answer would be. She rose her eyes to meet hers. "I fear I will, someday soon," Isabella said with a hollow voice. She felt that the moment she got rid of Braun, she would forfeit her soul to the hatred that had spread within her. Isabella was afraid of it now, but as she realized that there was little to no chance of her escaping her tower, she embraced the only thing she knew—her hatred for Braun. A part of her truly wanted to believe Jacob and Carlisle spoke the truth; that Edward did indeed live. But if that was the case, then why had he not come with them?

Unexpectedly, loud shouts and running steps could be heard from the street below her window. Before Melike could reply to Isabella's alarming answer, she rushed to the opened doors, light spreading across her features.

Down, on the crowded street, a man that bore similar clothes to Carlisle's, was running away from several of Braun's guards. They had unsheathed their swords as they ran after him, yelling commands to one another to take him alive. Her eyes widened and her heart sped up as she saw two men sneak close to the tower with a frail-looking ladder. The one with a dark beard and turban looked up to meet her surprised face—it was Jacob!

"You came!" she shouted despite herself, tears of joy threatening to escape as he placed the ladder against the tower. It was, of course, too short to reach her balcony. But he climbed up it anyway. The further he climbed up the façade of the tower, the more people seemed to notice him. When Jacob was halfway up, he noticed the strong winds tearing at his whole body. The ladder would bend and the butterflies in his stomach grew. People pointed and stared in shock as he tried to reach the young woman who stood there, waiting for him.

But then shouts of worry sounded as the left part of the ladder bent at an unnatural angle. The wood started breaking—slowly at first, but soon it snapped completely, sending Jacob flying back. He aimed for one of the close rooftops, clinging to the terracotta tiles as he hung—swaying from the building. Isabella gave out a sound of fear and frustration.

When she looked back to see what Melike would say, she found the woman to be gone. It took all her will to catch Jacob's attention. "Jacob, listen to me!" she shouted, her voice almost breaking. "You need to flee. My caretaker has gone to fetch Braun. If he finds you I could not bear it. Please," she said, mustering up the courage she never had to begin with. Jacob opened his mouth to protest, but as the winds of Anatolia made their every effort to work against him, he bit his teeth together.

"I cannot, Isabella. I will not leave you here—"

"If Edward is alive, tell him I…" she could not bring herself to say the words as she crumbled against the metal railing. She needed to collect herself and face her future. "Tell him not to come for me. I could not bear the thought of losing him a second time!" she finally said, turning around to enter her prison.

Jacob swayed at the end of the rooftop, staring up at the disappearing figure in disbelief. "Isabella!" he shouted before she was gone. "Wait! One last thing then."

The brunette turned around, staring down at her friend. "I will be here until they come. You will not see me but I will be here to send you off!" he said with tears in his voice. Jacob never wanted to admit that he had failed her then. He never wanted to accept what was soon to happen to her.

 _6:43 PM_

Braun kicked the man out of his office, furious at the news. The messenger protested loudly. "I am only the _bearer_ of these news. I do not deserve such treatment, my lord!"

"How can Hassan and the others do this to me? They promised me a secure place within these walls. I will not be taken for a fool!"

"As I said, I inform you that you are to surrender to the forces of this city to be sent to the Angloan ambassador in Rome, where you will await your trial. The charges against you are treason. Lord Hassan cannot and will not stand by the side of a traitor to his own crown," the short man said. He sneered at Braun. "Be thankful that they even saw fit to warn you. Few people have demanded that respect."

"I gave him the girl, we had a deal!" Braun shouted as he realized that his life was over. But he would not give up so easily.

"You gave the young woman to be sent away to the Royal Harem," then the man got a sinister smile on his face. "Although I am certain that Lord Hassan would reconsider if she were to enter _his_ harem instead. He is quite fond of the girl. All you have to do is to acknowledge him as her new master."

"And what will the Royal Court do with me if I do not give them what was promised?"

"That is not my problem," the man said, as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Get out of my house," Braun said in a growling voice. "Before I decide to take out all of my anger on you.

Just as the messenger scurried to get away, one of his guardsmen came running. "My lord, I have suspicious activity to report. Some of the guards followed a strange man who tried to break into the front gate. While they were gone two other men placed a ladder against the tower and tried to climb up it, to reach the woman you have stored away up there," he said, breathing heavy after having just arrived.

Braun scoffed at this. "What did the men look like?"

"What do you mean? They were dressed like commoners."

"No, I mean—were they foreigners?" A small part of him worried that it was Edward and his friends, there to take Isabella back.

"Oh, no. They looked like locals—complete fools if you ask me—"

"I didn't ask. It is no grave matter then. You may leave."

"But my lord—"

The guard stopped in his tracks as the thin face scowled. Braun seemed like a snake, ready to attack. The guard mumbled under his breath. "Of course, my lord." Before leaving the office.

As soon as the door closed, Braun slapped his hands down on the elaborate desk, making the scrolls and loose stacks of paper fly away at the huff of wind. "Damn!" he screamed out at the emptiness. It seemed Hassan or someone else in Constantinople had already taken their first step against him. But Braun would not let anyone take his bargain chip away from him. He would keep her under lock and key and when Hassan arrived in a few hours, he would bargain a better deal. He was Lord Braun for God's sake!

 _7:30 PM_

An immense sky draped over the city, making Isabella feel small. Her tower seemed placed in the middle of the city and her eyes could not move while she watched the fiery orb move closer and closer toward the horizon, counting her final minutes until her fate was sealed forever. She knew it was not her last sunset, but somehow this one felt like it. There were no clouds present to soften the sky this dusk, only the raw heavens—bare and intense, showing all their secrets to the citizens of Constantinople.

She had been standing there—watching, waiting for the palanquin that would arrive at the red doors of the house. The towers and dome of Saint Sophia were black shadows against the glowing dot that sank ever so slowly. Her face was aglow with the last of the orange rays before twilight would beckon the stars. The city below her, never quite at peace, would soon come alive to the music of the night—this was when it truly breathed-when it felt alive.

Isabella thought that if she stood long enough on that balcony, the sun would disintegrate her with its powerful rays. But all she saw was it leaving in tedious steps, bringing on the darkness.

Movement on the street caused her to break free from the trance which nature held over her. A group of servants bearing two palanquins stopped—guards trailed shortly after. They were dressed in finer and more expensive garments than Braun's men. Isabella knew it was Lord Hassan before he had even left the strange box which carried him.

She stared as he walked in through the doors, drawing a shaky breath as she accepted what awaited her.

When she turned, Melike stood in the middle of the room, her entire figure bathed in the last rays of the dying sun. Isabella nearly jumped in her place out of shock. "I did not hear you enter," she remarked, trying to keep the mask of indifference. The Ottoman woman's face was immobile—relaxed and stoic. When Melike made no move to speak, Isabella took it as a signal to make ready for her departure. But Melike never headed for the door. She stood on the Persian carpet as if glued to it.

Melike eyed her, but not with the judging eyes that Isabella had become so used to. There was something else hidden behind those striking orbs, waiting to emerge—something behind the stoic mask of spite and judgment. There was no sound in the room, her eyes caught every microscopical movement—the air hitting the blue curtains, the particles dancing in the orange glow, and Melike reaching for something. Outside, the city noise died down—only they seemed present in the world. The air grew brittle as every muscle in her body tensed.

In the golden light of dusk, an object was withdrawn from the old woman's tunic—her silver eyes watching Isabella's reaction with intent. Silver eyes, Isabella thought. She had never noticed that before.

The safani ivory hilt retained its white glow. The Damascus steel glittered dangerously as it peaked out of its white leather sheath, embossed with intricate swirling patterns. Isabella would recognize that dagger anywhere. It was Zoráida's knife.

Before she could utter a sound, time and sound caught up with her at an alarming rate. "This is my final lesson to you, Isabella." Melike's voice had changed as she neared the other woman, her silhouette outlined against the skyline as the sun touched the horizon. The woman spoke in soft tones, the harsh and mocking voice was gone, replaced by something that touched the strings of her heart.

"There is a choice you must make, and only you." Isabella could not take her eyes off the curved dagger—a dagger that symbolized her willingness for survival, her willingness to fight for herself and her freedom; something she thought she'd lost forever.

"You can take the easy route, the one that will require the least effort on your part. If you go with Lord Hassan and become a woman of the harem, you will no doubt achieve your goal of revenge against Lord Braun. But you do so at the cost of your freedom and soul. You will lose yourself in your revenge until it consumes you," her words spoke of a wisdom Isabella had never seen in her before.

"Or you can choose to go back with your friends and face your past and the memory of the man that haunts you so."

Her mouth dropped. "All this time…you had this knife?"

Melike never answered her question directly. "I taught you what I could so that you may choose when the time came."

She thought back to every action Melike had made. It started dawning on Isabella that Melike might have helped her more than she thought. Had she not made her send Jacob and Carlisle away earlier that day, the guards might surely have gotten them. Had she not crafted a mask and showed her how to shield herself, Braun would have broken her spirit by now.

"You were never loyal to Lord Braun, were you? Everything you have taught me, everything I have learned here was never to subdue me to his will or make me his loyal puppy. You only made me open my eyes to his manipulations," Isabella trailed off, her eyes widening more as she realized the gift Melike had bestowed upon her. She was confused. The woman had treated her with such ill intent that she didn't know how to react.

"Why?" she demanded in disbelief. "Why?" She needed to know. They stayed in their bubble, where time seemed to stand still as Isabella realized that Melike had taken her under her wing all this time. The carefully crafted mask had been there for her protection, her snarky remarks about revenge had been for her benefit only.

"Because you remind me of someone I lost a long time ago, thanks to a man like Braun. I found this knife and saw that he had not broken you yet and I realized that he never would." The gap between them closed even more as Melike came closer. "The choice is yours," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "You can either choose retribution or heal yourself from this experience. You can go with your friends and find out if your fiancé is alive as they say."

"This is your final lesson then? To let me choose my own destiny?"

Melike laughed—not the sinister and mocking chuckle, but a sincere laugh that softened her otherwise harsh features. "Maybe we really do get to choose our path, maybe fate is written by our own choices and actions. But no, what I am showing you is that you can only trust in yourself, Isabella. It is a lesson I wished someone had taught me when I was younger. You can only rely on yourself and if you wish to have your freedom, _you_ must take it. No one can do all the hard work for you in this life—it must come from yourself. If your friends hadn't come for you, would you still fight to leave? Think about that for a moment."

"And how would I flee? The place is impermeable."

Melike's smile grew wider. "The answer has been in front of you all along."

The knife beckoned at her. All she had to do was reach out and grab it. But something worked against her. A part of her wished to push the gift away and remain there, only so that she might see when Braun fell from grace.

 _7:42 PM_

"I trust everything is in order now that my servant passed you on my message," Hassan said in a delighted tone, eager to take Isabella with him. He received a hateful glare from Braun—the Angloan looked about ready to tear him piece to piece.

"I will not hand her over when we already had a deal. She is to enter the Royal Harem as per my instructions," he said in a haughty voice.

Hassan only chuckled as he grazed the courtyard, the sun almost behind the horizon. "I will pay you more, as my servant already told you—"

"And what will I tell His Majesty?"

"Let me worry about that. Selim grows weak, it will not be long before the son takes the throne, and then your little dove will have been wasted. Besides," he cast him a sideways glance. "Be grateful that I have not yet handed you over to Lord Theodor. He stirred up quite a hassle with our ambassadors to get you back. It seems your king and country loathes you."

Braun gritted his teeth. "Isabella is loyal to me, she will turn on you if you make a move against me once I hand her over."

This provoked a deep laugh with Hassan as he cast his head back, greatly amused at what Braun had just said to him. "Loyal? How could she ever be loyal to you? She must have taken you for a fool and has greatly played you. Or, you have become blind to her sweet smile, my friend. That woman is only loyal to herself and those she cares for, which is why I admire her and know she will one day grow to be mine. I will treat her with respect when you knew not to."

"You are taking it too far, my lord!" Braun was practically shaking in his shoes as the insults kept getting thrown at him. He knew he had lost and Hassan seemed to delight in every moment of it. Braun realized he had lost yet another friend and supporter in the city.

"I wonder what she will do or has done once rumors of a masked man leaving the city reach her. Did not some man try to scale the tower today, to reach her?"

"It was a desperate attempt to snatch her when you knew you would have her this evening."

"I never sent anyone to get her. I am not that crude, Lord Braun." Hassan frowned at this. "Did you really think I would send my men to do such a thing?"

Suddenly Braun's eyes seemed to fall out of their sockets. "A masked man?" His reaction delayed as he swiftly processed the words. How did Hassan know about Edward?

"Indeed, some tall man traveling with a guard and four horses left the city earlier this afternoon. The gossip was positively bustling and I could not get enough of it. It seems he has ties to our little dove."

"Edward." Braun felt fear then. He looked at the tower as that fear increased. Without a word he darted for it, urging some of the guards to follow him. Hassan watched in silent astonishment as he saw Braun disappear from the courtyard and into the building.

He sighed to himself. "What a pity." But he knew that it would be a reason to doom Braun once and for all. Isabella had been his only possession—without her, he was a poor man left with no power. He would not last long in Constantinople, especially not when he had enemies coming left and right.

It seemed Braun was thinking the same, for he scaled the steep steps of the tower as fast as his thin legs could carry him. He banged on the locked door to Isabella's room, urging her to open it. "I _demand_ you open this door at once!" he shouted, his fear was that she had already managed to escape.

* * *

Melike turned to watch as someone tried to force the door open from the other side. Her head snapped back to Isabella. "You must make your choice, Miss Swan." She stretched her hand forward, waiting for Isabella to accept the knife.

The young woman stared down at it, already knowing in her heart what her answer had been all along.

* * *

The guards had managed to force the door open, the sound of the wood broke in a sickening bang as the group entered. Braun's eyes caught sight of Melike, wounded on the Persian carpet. Her upper arm had been slashed—nothing substantial, she would live. And then he saw her.

Standing on the metal fence, Isabella looked ready to jump off the balcony. Her skirts billowed in the wind—the sun had set, the remnants of its rays leaving way for the first stars to grace the Anatolian sky. In her left hand, she held a knife, scarlet blood dripping from the curved dagger. The young woman turned around to face the man she had come to loathe so.

"Isabella, my dear, come—get off of there before you fall," he tried to coax her, but he only received a stare so loaded with anger and hatred that a chill coursed through him. She offered him no words, only a smile that revealed her taste for freedom.

"If you come down from there, I will give you all that you wish." He only needed to speak with her—distract her, so that he could get a grip on her skirts or tunics—anything to take her away from the railing. The guards closed in, the tension rising in the room as night fell.

He knew then—from the look in her eyes, that he had never had her as his. She had never once trusted or felt loyal toward him. It had all been a façade—a mask that he had never even known was there.

As the calling to prayers sounded at twilight, Isabella took a deep breath, tensing her muscles and jumping out into thin air—letting her body fall as she left her prison behind her.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for the boost in reviews I've started seeing lately! You might notice some differences in the structure of this chapter. Since the current 1520's timeline takes part in the better part of a day (even just an afternoon) I felt it was better to write the time here so that you wouldn't be confused. Adding lines to separate the different occurrences seemed to just confuse even more so I opted for this other option. I hope you didn't find it too disturbing. I am not planning on using it again in the near future.**

 **I hope you have enjoyed this chapter! Depending on how much free time I have, chapter 13 might be updated earlier than expected (I hope so!) or it might be delayed (because I got a job!). If I notice that I will not be able to update the fic next weekend, I will leave some info on my profile saying so. But it should all be good. Just a head's up.**

 **Thanks again to my wonderful readers, reviewers etc. You are all amazing and I love writing for you. Your wonderful support and reviews make it more than worth it and I am thrilled to be sharing this story with you.**

 **Cheers!**


	13. Chapter 13

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 13_

 _September 10th, 1492 – Wessport_

The palace was in mayhem. Philip was bedridden, too weak to walk anymore. Many who were openly loyal to him had started fleeing the palace, knowing well that Magnus would claim the throne the moment the king passed.

Athar was thinking of doing the same. He had been sitting next to Philip, speaking with him for long hours. The king knew what his brother was planning and realized the palace was fast becoming a dangerous place. He wanted Leonore gone. Athar, fearing what Rebecca might do with the queen, agreed.

He had tried to bring up this idea to the Frenchwoman several times. But she had not yet made up her mind. Leonore was waiting for word from her father, hoping she could return to France.

"By the time your father returns, it may be too late."

"We all know Magnus and his wife are planning to claim the throne from Victoria the moment my husband passes, and yet no one dares to speak against this?"

"Who is there to oppose them? I and several other lords would love an opportunity to fight against them, but we have few who dare. Victoria sides with her uncle and Rosalie is too afraid to even be seen these days. She hides in the chapel and prays to God for her father's soul. You should be thinking of the future. I know you do not trust fully in me, and I understand that. But I beg of you, come with me to Cantabria and hide there. I am certain a message will reach your family from there just as well."

"I cannot go with you, I must go to France!" she exclaimed. They were in the gardens, far away from the main building of the palace.

"Why?"

She hesitated for a second. Leonore could not know how Athar would react. Yet, the Frenchwoman could never bring herself to speak the words. _I am with child_ , was what she wanted to say.

"I am afraid," was what came out of her lips instead. The statement was true, but it only masked what needed to be said.

The moment she had discovered that her monthly bleeding had stopped she thought it was because of stress. But when it happened again, followed by sickness in the morning, Claudine knew instantly. The young queen knew her situation was life-threatening. If the information got into the hands of the wrong person, she could well be imprisoned in the palace the moment her husband died. She also knew that if the child was a son, it would be dispersed of, by the ruthless Rebecca.

Athar gave her a reassuring smile. "We will take care of you. No harm will come your way. But I believe it is still better if you take my offer."

The bump on her belly was almost nonexistent now, but in a few months, it would start showing. Leonore had no wish for Athar to care for her during her pregnancy. She feared that the Lord would use that child to fight back against Magnus and put it on the throne. Her family was a powerful one in France, connected to the king himself. It would receive backing from both ends, but only if it was a son.

"We must get you away from here, Your Majesty," he tried to relay the importance of their situation. Not a soul was around them. Only trees and the wind were witnesses to what they had spoken.

"Do you promise to take me to my family from Cantabria?" Leonore knew the chance was larger if Athar had no knowledge of her pregnancy.

"I will do what I can."

 _September 11th, 1492 – Wessport_

Leonore and Claudine had been escorted to the lower ring by a kitchen servant. It was in the early hours in the morning and the sun was not yet up. A carriage stood waiting outside the gates, Athar stood talking to the driver. When he saw the two women, escorted by the maid, he made a move for them to hurry.

"There is a boat in the harbor that will take you down south."

"You will not come with us?"

"Someone must explain your absence. I will say you've gone to France, to visit a sickly relative. They will, of course, see it as you escaping the country. But I do not think either Magnus or Rebecca will suspect anything."

Leonore turned back, to stare at the city. She knew it was a place she would not miss. But, despite having brought her so many sorrows, there was now a small being forming in her stomach that would be her world. She had Philip to thank for that.

"Will you tell my husband? I do not want him to think that I am deserting him at such an hour," she said while Claudine gave their bags to the driver.

"I will, I will. Now, make haste!" Athar said, nervously staring behind him. The women got into the carriage and as the door shut, it took them straight to the harbor. It wasn't until it had disappeared behind a hill that Athar felt it was safe to return to the palace.

Leonore placed a hand over her stomach. She lamented that Philip would most likely pass without ever knowing he'd fathered another child

 _September 20th, 1492 – Wessport_

He lay wheezing on his bed. Philip had sustained many injuries during his life. At times, he had been ill, but never to an extreme case. This was different, he could feel his body slipping. Athar would visit him every evening and they would reminisce about forgotten days.

Leonore had fled the city just as Magnus' allies started occupying it. He knew it was for the best. He lamented the life he'd given her—which had been full of troubles and sorrow. He should never have married her, a girl so loyal to her family, so high in spirits when they had met three years before.

"I've some wine." Athar's voice broke through the fog that clouded most of his senses. "Don't tell the physician I gave you some, or he'll have my head."

Philip was about to answer when a coughing fit rocked his entire body. Athar helped him sit up so that he would not choke.

"I should have died on the battlefield, and not lying in my bed, rotting of old age," he sneered when he'd caught his breath. "Where is that wine?"

A cool cup was pressed into his hand and he downed the beverage in one sip. Philip let his head rest on the pillow once more. "What news do you bring me today, old friend?"

It was hard for Athar to see someone like the respectable monarch contained to his bed. All his life, he had looked up to Philip, they had shared council together and tried to form a better country. The king had never been afraid to make difficult decisions, but they always worked out. He had never respected anyone as much. And now he lay there, only the shadow of what he used to be. His hair was thin, white like the snows of winter. His eyes, once a brilliant gray, now clouded and empty. His lips were thin and blue—Philip was constantly cold as his circulation had worsened. His outer limbs had grown like ice. Athar knitted together his eyebrows—all of this had happened in the course of two weeks.

"No good news, I'm afraid. Lord Talbot, Quinn and another handful of them have arrived from all over the country, ready to swear allegiance to the new monarch, whoever that might be. Magnus does little to hide that he is preparing to take the throne." The news worried him to such an extent that Athar scarcely knew what to do with himself. Amidst the political turmoil, Philip seemed to have been forgotten.

"My brother's lust for power will destroy this land," Philip lamented. He stared out the window, watching the landscape below the palace slowly change as summer died. Soon the colors of autumn would paint the surrounding forests of Wessport. "And it is my fault, for neglecting him, for not seeing what his wife was."

"We all ignored what Rebecca was because we did not wish to see it," Athar's heart ached as he saw Philip regret. "But there is still time, Your Majesty. You can pass on the crown to one of your daughters—"

"If I give the crown to Victoria, she would realize that Magnus would take it from her by force. There are few left on our side, few there would want a queen—because when she married, her husband would be the new king of Angloa. She is smart enough to understand that she could not hold on to that power and that my brother would take it from her, one way or another. If I gave the throne to Rosalie, she would hang on to the crown, because she knows that Magnus is not a qualified ruler. And it would be her end," his tired voice trembled. "Yet, I cannot openly cede the power to my brother. He will have to take it by force, without my consent," Philip murmured, too tired to ponder the future once he was gone.

A knock sounded on the door. "That must be the maid, with my medicine," the king said. "Enter!"

A young woman entered, with a goblet on a silver plate. She was about to put down the beverage when Athar stepped in. "I will give him the potion," he said, taking the goblet from the girl and sending her on her way. The maid's eyes opened slightly as if she wanted to protest, but she never said a word. She only curtsied and shut the door behind her.

Athar gave Philip the cold drink. The physician said it would help the king with his pains and to sleep. But as soon as the king had downed the entire contents of the goblet, his coughing started again. It sounded worse this time.

"Do you always react like this when you drink that potion?" Athar asked in a worried tone.

"It's supposed to balance my humors. The drink rattles my insides and helps them settle—says the physician. It is better than having him bleed me," Philip said after the coughing had died down. He settled back into the pillows, feeling more tired than ever.

"Is it Andrews that administered that medicine?" asked Athar. Andrews was the royal physician.

"Aye."

Athar took it on good faith. If Andrews had told Philip to drink the medicine, then he must know what he was doing. He wondered if the medicine was only to lessen the symptoms of the king. Few things could cure old age, and it seemed it was the most prominent reason as to why the old monarch was bedridden.

Athar was ready to leave for the day, sensing that Philip wanted some sleep. "Thomas." The weak voice stopped him just by the door. Athar turned and sat down on the bed. Something in Philip's eyes unsettled him. It was as if his friend knew something he did not. A faint smile graced his lips and the arrogant eyebrow arched. The expression made Philip look years younger and stronger. "When I die, I want you to leave Wessport. Everyone knows you were the most loyal to me. You were involved in discovering my brother's philandering with the royal treasury. Magnus will not take kindly to you. If you are away from court, he might forget you, or leave you be."

"What talk is this of death, Your Majest—"

"Philip."

"Sire, I—"

"Please, Thomas. I've known you for thirty years. I would like to think we are at a point in our friendship where you can cease to call me by my title." It was a request Athar would not deny him. Yet, there was something heart-wrenching about naming the king by his first name.

"Philip, then."

"Thank you. Now, I wish to rest, for this inexplicable fatigue has settled within me, and I feel only sleep can help."

Something inside of Athar told him not to leave his king, but he did as he bade. "I shall see you tomorrow, Your Maj—, Philip," Athar said in a low tone. He stood up to walk to the door.

"Until tomorrow," came the faint voice behind him. When Athar closed the door, it was almost as if he knew that they would not meet again.

* * *

It was early morning when he heard the news. Lord Athar felt his heart crumble in pain as one of his footmen came running with the news of Philip's death. Magnus had been awoken just minutes after his brother's passing. He had summoned the archbishop and was rushing toward the cathedral of Wessport, where he would be crowned. Rebecca and many of his followers were with him. His son, Jasper, followed as well. Even Victoria would be there, not allowed to say goodbye to her father. Alas, Rosalie had ignored Magnus' summons and went to see Philip's corpse—to say her goodbyes to her father.

Athar had no time for it, and he lamented that he would never see his friend again. The footman and some of his servants rushed to some horses that were always waiting, just outside the walls. It was time for the lord to return to Cantabria. He could only care for Leonore now until she was safely delivered back to France. He had hoped to take Rosalie with him as well, but there was little time.

As Athar rode for the harbor, he never looked back, knowing he would see Wessport again. He was glad he did not have to witness Magnus' crowning and ascension to the throne. He would not have been able to mask his distaste for the new king.

* * *

 _April 3rd, 1520 - Constantinople_

The impact against the terracotta tiles was violent and rough. Bruises formed under her skin already. Dense air gathered around her as the surrounding sound died down. All she heard was her heartbeat—the adrenaline was ever present in her system, her whole body eager to rush away from the shouts and screams that echoed behind her.

Braun had leaped to the balcony and watched as she fell—aiming to land on the nearby roof. Isabella had overlooked it all this time. Each day she had stared at the city, and each day she had ignored the possible escape route. Braun must have thought she would have never dared such a stunt.

How wrong he had been.

He gripped the metal railing and released a loud howl of frustration. Isabella could not think clearly with so much adrenaline in her blood. All she knew was to get away—away from Braun, away from Constantinople and find Edward.

The streets below the house were structured chaos: they were streets, filled with people, going about their business. She savored her newly regained freedom, taking a deep breath as the light continued to disappear and the stars became more prevalent on the never-ending sky.

"Jacob," was all she could say. She needed to find him. But Braun and his guards already sprang into action, rushing down the stairs of the tower, aiming to reach her before she disappeared in the masses. Her clothes would help her immerse herself into the crowd that grew now that the sun had left the Ottoman Empire.

Jacob said he would be nearby, perhaps he had seen her. The pulse was deafening as she pushed herself up and carefully tried to find a way down the slanted roof. Alas, there was none. But, it seemed someone was looking out for her, because—as per usual, the carts loaded with hay passed below her on the street. Isabella gave it no second thought and leaped out once more into thin air, landing with a thud into the hay. The driver turned around and watched in silent awe as a young brunette struggled to wade through the thick straws, working her way off the cart.

As soon as her feet touched the ground, the red doors to Braun's residence opened and a massive wave of guards—led by the man himself, emerged.

The instant she saw them, Isabella darted away, her nimble legs moving as fast as her body would let them. She never looked back, only tried to wade through the masses, pushing aside stands and carts as she sprinted, hoping it would slow down her captor. Isabella only knew one thing, which was to get out of the city and find a ship to Angloa—where she would be safe.

Melike's words were still ever present in her mind; "You have to wound me or Braun will know I helped you." She had hesitated, but Melike had insisted so. The young woman had slashed her lightly on her upper arm before giving a respectful bow and reaching the balcony.

She ran to get away from her hunters, but the wind in her hair, the exotic smells and sounds reminded her of the liberty she had regained. How could she ever even have contemplated living locked up in a harem? Isabella could not help but smile as she darted down the narrow streets, feeling like a bird released from its cage.

Someone was gaining on her, she could feel a pair of eyes drill into her neck. The locals jumped out of her way when she ran past, a large group of men following her. Yet, the crowd did little to stop her. It was as if the Ottomans already knew who she was and what she was running from—they knew what was in store for her if she ever got captured.

Alas, it seemed someone soon was right behind her. Isabella readied her dagger—she would not give up without a fight. The young woman ran right into an alleyway, not knowing it was a dead end. She stared at the wall and despaired at the thought of being captured. Her follower caught up with her and without looking, Isabella turned to slash him.

Jacob jumped away from the knife in the nick of time—it only caught him in the chest, ripping his tunic and scratching his skin. "Isabella, it's me!" As soon as she recognized him, he took her hand and dragged her with him, running out of the alley and beginning their flight to the northwestern gates—outside which Edward awaited them with horses. He hoped Carlisle would be there too. They had one day left before their ship left them stranded in the East.

The running seemed endless. Each street grew to look the same and as night had fully emerged, they became blind when no torches were available. Jacob was lost as the masses died down, thinking they had run the wrong way. He stopped and pulled her into a desolate corner, taking off his dark mantle and covering her with it. Isabella's clothes were too bright to camouflage her during the night.

"Do you know where we are?" He finally admitted to being lost.

"I wasn't even let out of the tower, Jacob. How could I know where we are?" she snapped, continuously looking over her shoulder expecting to see a thin face with crazed eyes. "Let's just run, I do not want to wait, I do not want him to catch me!"

Steady hands came to rest on her shoulders. "I will not let him catch you, Isabella. We did not come all this way only to lose you again. I just need to slow down and situate myself. The sun is down and its light has faded. I cannot tell east from west as it is."

"Where are we going?" she asked, looking around, trying to help. There were some people there, sending them curious glances but otherwise ignoring them. The street had few tents, some were still packing up from the day's work.

"To the northwestern gate, there are horses awaiting us a few miles outside. A man there will let us through, no questions asked," he explained.

"Then let us ask," she said. There was little else to do. Neither Isabella nor Jacob knew how to interpret the stars, they had no compass and no map of the city. All they had was a direction.

"I do not speak the language," he lamented.

A sly grin suddenly touched her features as she started walking away from him. "I do."

Jacob watched as Isabella neared a woman packing away her grains from her stall. She approached the cautious woman with her eyes cast to the ground—a show of respect. Her voice grew gentle and her manners more elegant as she spoke the strange tongue. The woman only pointed and said a few words, before shooing Isabella away, hoping none had seen the two speak.

Dressed like a noblewoman, she caught a few glances crossing the street, reaching the corner where Jacob awaited her.

"Well?" He was worried. They had no doubt attracted too much attention already. If word got out that a young foreigner in noble clothes was searching for the northwestern gate, he was sure Braun would hear about it.

"I know the way, just follow me," she said in hushed tones, keeping a resting hand on her dagger and her chocolate orbs ever watchful.

But before they could go, Jacob stopped her. "We shouldn't have asked, now I am certain Braun will know where we are headed and block the way," he argued, the lines in his face setting deep, his hands reaching to scratch his chin—still bothered by the false beard.

Isabella crouched down next to him and rose a cocky eyebrow. "That is why I asked for the southeastern gate. We just have to go in the opposite direction. Have you really no faith in me, Jacob?"

He stared at her dumbfounded, a pale shade of crimson touching his cheeks. "I…," he started, but never finding the words.

"Of course you don't. Never mind, follow me and we will be out of here before the sun dawns." Light sparked in her eyes as she spoke of sunrise. Months of fear and uncertainty gave way to longing. Isabella had started to forget Edward, in a sense. The way he held himself, his rough voice and those endless eyes of his that would tear away at her being and stare at her raw. A shudder went through her as she remembered him. She wanted his arms around her once more, to feel his warm breath tickle her ear as he whispered reassuring words.

 _April 4th_

They had the whole night before them, but many obstacles were still present. They started walking down the streets, noticing how they started arriving at the outskirts of the city and thus the poorer areas. The narrow passageways were dingier and Jacob unsheathed a dagger, ready in case someone decided to strike.

The damask steel of Zoráida's knife reflected the silver of the moon—peeking through the tall houses. Her hairs rose with the excitement of the apparent danger. Every so often, groups of soldiers and guards would patrol the streets, bearing torches and cast their yellow light on the dark road. Jacob would drag her into a desolate alley and they would hold their breaths as the men passed by.

It took them a long time to reach the northwestern part of the wall. But soon they saw the massive structure tower over them, casting black shadows over the houses that clung to its side. Down the wall stood the gate. Alas, the doors had been closed for the night.

"Damn it!" Jacob hissed under his breath. "We are too late. The gate has shut for the day and I cannot see Karid anywhere." He grew nervous when he knew not what to do.

"Who is Karid?"

"A friend. He is the captain of the guards and would have given us safe passage out of the city. I guess he was powerless to stop them from closing the gate."

"Then we wait, Jacob. What are a few more hours?" But her words only seemed to disappoint him more.

"I figure they might be worth a lot to you." He turned to stare at her. Jacob could still not believe the woman he saw. The clothes on her body seemed displaced—she was clearly uncomfortable in them. Something in her eyes had changed. He felt she had discovered a secret he had yet to uncover.

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder and a brief smile graced her lips. "You have traveled across the continent for me—I do not mind a few more hours until I taste my true freedom."

"Then let us find shelter for the night, somewhere we might be unseen," he said and looked around. Soon they found a desolate shed, not too far from the gate but still off the main streets by the wall. Isabella removed her headdress and veil, letting her auburn locks out of their constricting braids. Without much ceremony she lay on the hard and cold ground, falling asleep almost immediately. Jacob kept awake, keeping watch as the hours passed by.

* * *

It was the hour before dawn. The air was damp and heavy with morning mist. It penetrated their clothes and flesh, touching the bones of the two who were exposed to the chill. She awoke in coldness, her teeth chattering and her skin prickled from it. Darkness was surrendering to the nearing sun. The stars—once plentiful on the night sky—were now fading, as if they had never existed. Only remnants and whispers of them prevailed while the yellow orb once more neared the horizon.

But the morning coldness and chill mixed with their anticipation of what was to come. Isabella rose, eager and ready to leave Constantinople. Without much movement, the tension so clearly surrounding them kindled a fire within her.

Their sign soon followed. The rasping and wailing wood of the creaking gate doors extended itself through the streets of the district. It was time to venture to the gate and see if Karid was there.

Two shadows moved with ease through empty streets, avoiding the light as much as possible. They remained mute while floating toward the exit and to safety. Both were afraid that their heartbeats would give them away—thinking people still sleeping in their beds must be awakened by the loud thumps that their pumping blood produced.

However, the outskirts of Constantinople remained quiet so early before dawn. The city that was usually a contained chaos had died sometime when the moon had slowly lowered on the sky. It seemed she was giving them a peaceful goodbye, lamenting their hasty departure from her domain—regretful that they would not know of all her wonders. Isabella mourned that as well. For even though she had been brought there against her will, there was much left to discover within those vast walls. She had barely started scratching the surface of that exotic and mysterious world. The secrets it held fascinated her. Perhaps, someday, she could return—but as someone else, and in other circumstances.

They saw the opened gates—an unending field waited beyond those doors. But Jacob knew they could not waltz through. Leaving the city at such an hour and in such strange company would arise suspicion unless Karid was there. But he did not see the Captain anywhere.

Guards dressed in their finery fought against sleep as the light became more prominent. Isabella was mesmerized by what lay beyond that gate—fields of gold and a road leading to the horizon. She could spot the sea in the distance and smell its fragrance brought on by the wind.

"We must wait for Karid. He will be here," Jacob said—mostly to himself. But she paid him little heed. The young woman could not tear her eyes away from the outskirts of the city.

The following minutes that passed were excruciatingly long. Every time a morning patrol passed them, Jacob grew more anxious. He was certain that Braun was still out there. The traitor must have realized that they were not going to be at the southeastern gate by now.

Time lost its meaning to him as it went by in slow steps, taunting the nervous Angloan. "If Braun comes—," he started murmuring to himself.

"If Braun comes, I will do all in my power to rid this world of that man forever," Isabella growled. The anger and hatred she thought were left behind in the tower emerged. Melike's warning sounded in her mind. Killing Braun for personal gain would send her on a journey she rather not take. When Isabella met Jacob's eyes, she found disbelief and shock written across them. The young man wondered what the old lord had done to her to stir such hatred in her. But, he never asked.

Having their exchange of words, two things went past them. The first one was that a certain Captain of the guard—hiding his worry and fatigue as best as he could—had arrived on place, looking for someone to escort a woman out. But there was someone else arriving, at the beginning of the street leading to the gates.

Braun marched ahead of his guards—twenty men strong. He had scoured most of the city during the night, unable to find her. Nevertheless, after having sat down and started thinking, he realized there was somewhere he had overlooked. The northwestern gate was not as heavily guarded as the seaport or the eastern gates. An hour before dawn he had rallied his men and swiftly journeyed north, hoping he would find her.

"Isabella," Jacob said as his eyes caught sight of the small army nearing them. If Braun reached the gate before they did, there was nothing on earth that Karid could do to stop him from seizing Isabella and killing Jacob. "We need to run for it." His mouth felt slow as he spoke the words. Jacob was afraid that she would not be up to the challenge. But when he received a stiff nod, accompanied by unwavering determination, he knew he could count on her.

When their legs started moving, Isabella saw what was within her reach. Never once did she look back to see Braun stalking in the shadows. The open doors leading out of the city looked like the doors to heaven; the golden fields and the light horizon were the embodiment of liberty. The tall yellow straws swayed gently in the morning breeze, casting away the dew covering them. Behind them, Braun was her jailor, there to come and detain her once more. The closer they got to the doors, the more she could feel the warmth of day on her skin. Maybe it was her imagination, but the wind whispered for her, the sea called her name and the fading darkness smiled as Isabella Swan reached for her freedom.

Karid stared as a man and a woman darted for the gates—the woman bore a look of determination and ecstasy as she saw the tall doors and what lay beyond. He understood then who she was. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw Edward's friend following her, trying to keep up with her quick pace as they aimed for the gates. When he spotted a foreign man leading a group of private guards further down the street, Karid understood who this man was as well.

"Close the gates!" he commanded. "When the man and woman have passed," he smirked. His men stared in awe as the smile grazed his lips. Karid _never_ smiled in their company.

"Are you certain, sir?" Yazid questioned, watching the strange man and woman dart for the gate. "It seems rather suspicious that they would make a run for the gate and not have us further investigate them—"

"Yazid, tell me—why am _I_ Captain and not you?" Karid interrupted as his normal frown replaced the small smile. Yazid mumbled something that he could not quite hear. "Repeat that, and louder please."

"Because you have more experience than I." Yazid looked like he had bitten into a lemon.

"Exactly," Karid boomed. "And you do not question a man who has more experience and is wiser than you. Which is why you should not question me when I order you to close the gates!" He watched the guards who were dumbfounded by such words. "Well, don't just stand there, do as I say! They are almost here!"

Indeed, Isabella and Jacob were mere heartbeats from leaving the city. The tall doors began closing; shutting out the golden field and endless horizon that beckoned them to come. She ignored the pain in her lungs, how they burned with effort. All she wanted was to pass that threshold.

Braun saw them too, he saw the closing doors and screamed for them to be opened. Dawn was nigh, and so was his reach for Isabella. The older lord started running for the woman as sunlight slowly invaded the street from behind him. His legs felt sluggish; his lungs felt as if they were on fire, but his ire pushed all of that aside. She had tricked him! She had played him and now she would pay!

One foot stepped outside of the city, followed by the other. Soon, both Jacob and Isabella found themselves leaving the grand walls and gates of Constantinople behind. The call for prayers would soon sound with the rising of the sun, something that was to be a distant memory for her.

An earthshattering boom together with the wails of the wooden doors sounded like song to her ears when the entrance to the city closed.

"We made it! Braun is still inside!" Jacob exclaimed in pure joy, laughing almost like a madman as they had accomplished the impossible. Isabella tore the veil off her head and cast it aside, as well as the constricting skirts of her tunic. She cared little for modesty, the young woman wanted to leave all aspects of her time with Braun past her.

Even if they had still left the city behind, reaching the awaiting horses would be another feat. They dared not slow their pace, but after some ten minutes of rapid running, Isabella and Jacob sank down, drenched in sweat. There was a moment when her breath would not catch up with her and the young woman struggled to get a hold of herself.

"We are still some miles from the meeting point," Jacob said, lying flat on his back, sucking up as much of the cold morning air as he could. "By the roadside going along the sea."

She lay a little to his side, scarcely hearing his words. Her hands grabbed the damp earth beneath her, feeling it being squeezed in her closed fists—the metallic fragrance wafting like a sweet perfume through the air. She inhaled the freshness of the morning and saw some stars, faintly in the outline of the heavens, disappearing behind a myriad of colors. It looked like someone had poured buckets of hues in gold, orange, purple, red and blues, deciding to mix them together as the sun settled.

"…we need to keep moving," a distant voice said. "Edward will be worried otherwise."

Edward. Her Edward. She sat up and was met by Jacob, who tore off his turban and false beard. She was almost afraid to believe her Edward would be waiting for her. Isabella never felt herself stand up, nor commence jogging alongside Jacob again. Her numb mind was too preoccupied with what was to come. The time they had spent apart—when she had thought him dead, had only intensified what she felt for him. Isabella had no idea how she would react to seeing him, but all she knew was that she wanted to see him. The feeling was so strong that it physically ruled her senses.

They jogged the road while dawn illuminated their way. The minutes were long but both ignored their fatigue.

"There!" Jacob soon pointed at two figures astride two horses, their silhouettes outlined as they stood atop a cliff, watching the sea.

Isabella had to stop. She was afraid. What if it was not Edward behind that mask? The reality of him being dead had settled within her mind for so many months that hearing of him being alive seemed surreal. She started shaking, scolding herself for being so weak. The young woman ignored Jacob's worried questioning as she stopped moving. They were swiftly spotted by the riders, who went down to meet them.

Bracing herself for heartbreak and sorrow, Isabella did the only thing she knew—the only thing she had been taught; she put on the mask. It would protect her if that masked man turned out to be someone else, something else.

Hoofbeats and snorts scared away the animals that grazed the nearby fields in the early morning. The massive horses neared, magnificent creatures, illuminated by the rays of a new day. Carlisle sat astride a chocolate brown mare, his disguise cast aside as he bore his usual doublet and dark hoses.

But she paid him little heed. The only figure Isabella could see was the one dismounting his white steed while handing reigns of two other horses over to Jacob.

Her own mask was in place as the powerful legs bore a masked man over to her. She could never have imagined nor dreamed this moment even if she wanted to. It was all raw and real as the dark mask neared her. The relaxed hands swayed while he took confident steps in her direction.

It was his walk, she thought.

The more he neared, the more she perceived, the more she started to remember; his commanding presence dominated the air and the scent of sandalwood, leather and pine were carried by the winds.

How could she have forgotten? How could she have been afraid of this man once? Lastly, came what defined him. His eyes. The window to his soul bared before her without fear, with trust and she read in them the warmth and strength that radiated through. Her mask slipped, but only because she allowed it to. He stood a breath away from her and they found no words necessary to communicate.

Months of being apart had only strengthened their affection, and she allowed it to display clearly in her eyes. Edward did not see the expected relief at him being there, or a sense of security; only affection and gratitude, and perhaps something else.

With so few garments on he would imagine her freezing. But the young woman seemed ignorant of the biting morning chill.

He saw a change in her eyes. They looked rougher, more hardened by her experiences. He recognized that look, embedded now deep within her being. It was the same look he bore—that unyielding look of someone who had seen the ugly things in the world, yet grown the wiser because of it.

Edward and Isabella stood on the edge of the world, only having the other in their eyesight. The surroundings were forgotten as the halves were once again reunited—like day and night they needed to be in the other's presence for there to be a balance within them.

A gloved hand snaked around her waist, pushing her closer to him. Her own hands circled around him as they embraced. There was no kiss of passion, no words of love, there was only a breathtaking silence. They let it speak for itself and both understood its meaning. Dawn reflected their union; the beginning of a new era, the start of another day.

Her face found the nook of his neck and she buried all her sorrows in there. Isabella shut her eyes and wallowed in his hold.

Neither Jacob nor Carlisle wanted to interrupt the intimate moment. They could not help but stare, feeling that every step of their journey was worth it for this moment. Jacob had known of Edward and Isabella's deep affection for one another, but Carlisle had never known just how extensive it was. The moment he saw them in each other's arms he understood why Edward had cast aside everything for her, he understood why the man had gone so far to find her.

"We must go." Her whisper in his ear was like the song of a siren. He had never imagined he would hear that honey voice once more. Although her eyes were hardened, her voice had stayed the same.

Edward reluctantly released her from the embrace. "Let us be off then," he said direly. Without another word, he took the reins of one horse and helped her sit on it. Isabella cared little that she sat astride. The pink trousers protected her legs while the pale blue tunic did little to guard against the chill. Her silken locks danced in the wind as he mounted his horse. A dagger glinted on her hip, the Damascus steel reflecting the rays of the new sun. She looked like a fierce warrior, ready to lead a battalion on the eve of battle.

Their horses set off in a canter, taking them further up the road, away from the golden jewel of the Ottoman Empire. He sneaked glances at her ever so often. To be honest, he thought he would find a mess, broken by Braun or subdued by the city. Instead, he found someone else, someone different.

Getting to the beach they had arrived on was not hard, for Edward knew the way. The group would cast glances back, always on the lookout. When she galloped, her heart sang. Isabella grabbed the mane of the powerful animal and settled in its pace. Upon descending on the beach they saw the ship, a beckoning mirage that swayed on the glittering water.

"We have to swim over," his voice was low and delicious. She would do anything to get away. Isabella had a strange feeling in the back of her mind that Braun would still follow them. They let the horses loose and cast aside any unnecessary clothes. Edward took her small hand in his gloved one, guiding her to swim with him.

"Wait, it seems the Captain is sending someone!" Jacob was relieved when he saw the small boat and the men rowing across the azure water, nearing the white sands upon which they stood. But just as the wooden boat neared, the song of galloping hooves came upon them—a distant sigh at first, but ever-growing.

Edward crooned his neck, unable to see who would be in such a hurry on the road at this time. But he had his suspicions. The tall walls of the cliffs that encircled the beach did not allow him view of who would be up there, except for a part on the northern side. But the riders approached from the other side; from the south.

He did not wish to alarm her, he did not wish that relieved and peaceful look of bliss to be wiped off her features.

The boat hit the sand with a thud and the men inside lifted the oars while Edward and his friends jumped into its security. He heard the horses nearing, and the others did now as well.

"Braun has followed us!" cried Isabella as she spotted a group of riders watching them from the raised rock wall. The thin and scowling face stood out in the group, peering down at her—an inexplicable look of anger and hatred formed on his face as he caught sight of Edward.

"Come on!" Carlisle urged as he and Edward started pushing the boat away from the beach, jumping in as it settled into the water. "Row as fast as you can!" he commanded the sailors. They had only to take one look at the impressive line of intimidating Ottoman guards descending the cliffs on the north side to increase the speed.

Halfway to the ship, Braun landed on the white beach, cursing in a loud shout, screaming at the seagulls that shrieked back.

Edward's eyes glanced over to Isabella, completely ignoring Braun, he could do little from where he stood. She stared at that man with empty eyes, her hand resting on the Damascus steel dagger. The masked man worried once more what she might have gone through when she spent time with that disgraced traitor.

But, he offered no words of comfort. He knew she would only dismiss them. Instead, he looked to the ship, the sails down and the sailors ready to leave. When they reached the hull, the anchor was pulled out of the water while they climbed the ladder. Men shouted amidst the gentle breeze and song of seagulls, hoisting the small boat.

But another voice sounded in the distance, a voice that sent shivers down her spine. "Come back and kill me, you coward!" Braun yelled from the shore. He stood knee-deep in water; desperation and hatred on his face. The four of them watched in silence as the traitor hurled offensive insults at the bunch. He knew he had lost, he knew he had nothing to return to. Braun's world would soon crumble without a political stance, money or connections in the country.

"You are afraid to face me because you know I am the better fighter! Your whole act is false, even when I took Isabella, held her and had her as mine, you will do nothing about it!"

The insults against himself mattered little to Edward. He knew he was on par with Braun. But the moment he hurled them at Isabella something in him snapped. He pushed aside the sailors and walked toward the end of the ship, almost ready to jump into the sea and swim to shore.

"Edward, don't," came the calming voice behind him. He turned around to meet Isabella, who had followed him, worried he might do what he was thinking of doing. She came to stand next to him and laced their hands together before staring at Braun. White sails caught the western wind and the massive ship started moving, rocking with the minuscule waves that gently touched its sides. She rose her other hand and gave Braun a final wave goodbye.

A scream of rage was emitted from within his lungs, exiting his mouth in an impressive force. It rattled the enclosed beach and reached them. Braun stared as the ship sailed off, Cullen having stolen what should be his once more. He watched as Isabella waved goodbye, with a solemn and grave look on her face; offering him the biggest insult of all.

 **A/N: It felt really mean leaving you guys with that cliffhanger so I decided to post the next chapter. That, and since I can't post this weekend (probably the next one) I guessed this would be more appreciated than just leaving you hanging :)**

 **I can't believe the reviews I got on the last chapter! It's amazing. Thank you to both old and new readers!**

 **I still don't know if most of you read chapter 18 of the first fic. It already tells what will happen in Angloa and the role Leonore plays in it in the older timeline. I think I'll save you the effort and post a little snippet here of what I was referring to:**

* * *

 **"And no, I have not gone mad. His second wife; Leonore Valois, had a child in secret. She was only three months pregnant when Philip passed away." (...)**

 **"And now he seeks to be king by any means necessary," Edward said thoughtfully as he stared pensively into the hay covered floor. He thought all cards had been laid on the table, but Athar had yet another revelation.**

 **"I never said the child was male." Athar looked enigmatically at Edward. As if savoring the moment. "It is a girl!"**

 **"A girl?" The new turn of events had Edward's mind spinning. It was too much information to take in at** **once.**

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**

 **Cheers!**


	14. Chapter 14

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 14_

 _February 2nd, 1493 – Cantabria_

Scarcely four months had passed since Magnus' ascension to the throne. All throughout the country, there was a noticeable change. Immediately after having taken the crown, Magnus had increased taxes for most. Those closest to him, including Rebecca's family and some loyal followers, had evaded the tax raise. He had hunted down some who opposed him; Dukes and Counts who openly spoke against him—and thrown them into prison. Their lands had been forfeited to the crown and their ancestral seats had been given to noblemen more loyal to the king.

Victoria Fell had, against her will, been married off to one of Rebecca's brothers at only thirteen years old. The princess was miserable in her marriage and felt almost deserted now by her aunt and uncle. The warmth and care they'd shown to her before were gone the moment they took power. Rosalie kept silent, afraid to trust anyone. She lived in a prison, much like her sister. The legacy of Philip Fell was gone—died with him. His brother slowly squandered the money of the kingdom while his people starved. They were more miserable now than ever—all so that he might live in splendor. He started adding new wings to the palace and bought expensive jewels and robes for his wife. Magnus cared little for the lower classes, or he was simply blinded.

Athar managed to keep a low profile. He would often travel over the sea, to France. Leonore's letter had reached her father, but he could not take her home. Her older brother, Guillaume, had passed, just a few months prior. When the once queen had learned of her brother's demise she had locked herself in her room for a week, not wanting the other maid's in Athar's palace to see her cry.

Her father had not wished her to come because he was in a dispute with another lord, and they were a mere cry away from full war with each other. She would be safer in Angloa than she would be in France—or so her father had explained it in his letter.

Leonore's hand brushed her growing belly. She knew it was not the case. Claudine was an immense help when it came to hiding her state. But she could not go on forever.

It was a cold winter morning, and Leonore was to take a bath. The thick robes she wore would hide most of her body. So, when the maids had heated her water and poured it into the wooden tub, they left her with Claudine. They took the lady's shyness to undress amongst them as mere modesty.

As soon as the door closed, Claudine helped her lady rid herself of the constricting clothes. The outer coat fell in a heap around her feet. The thick auburn robe lined in fox fur did the most job of hiding her form. The coat ballooned out around her from her bosom; giving her body a triangle shape from the upper waist and down. But, Leonore was six months' pregnant, and every day her stomach grew. She had not yet started worrying about actually giving birth to her child.

Her other garments came off—Claudine taking great care in slowly loosening the fabric that tried to hold in her stomach and breasts. It was painful for the woman, having constricting silk trying to keep her in. Sometimes she would have fainting spells and trouble breathing. But she did her best to hide it. Leonore did not wish Athar to know of her child. The moment the lord laid eyes on that stomach, he would see a possibility of claiming the throne from Magnus.

Leonore could understand him, to some degree. What Magnus was doing—bleeding the country dry—was unfortunate and wrong. But her own blood came before some old throne.

She stood in the middle of the room, naked and shivering, ready to step into the bath when the door to her chamber opened. Two maids stepped in, carrying with them the towels they'd forgotten. Their jaws dropped to the floor while their eyes grew into saucers as they caught sight of the pregnant woman.

One maid dropped the towels and ran away while the other stood there immobile. Leonore screamed for her to get out. Claudine pushed the girl out and locked the door after her. "What now?!" Leonore ignored the cold of the room, for a chill, unlike anything she had ever felt before started claiming her.

"We must get you away from here immediately!" Claudine said, handing the queen her auburn robe to cover herself. "There is no one to stop us."

"Yes, there is, Athar arrived yesterday night. I am certain that maid has run to get him. Claudine, he will take my child from me!" Tears streamed down the beautiful face, her features twisted in pain as she held her stomach. The mere thought of her child being cast into a life of worry and battle sent her mind spinning. "I do not want this for my child, I do not want it to be brainwashed into thinking it has a right to that stupid throne!" Claudine paid her little heed as she rushed about the room, gathering enough supplies to last them to France. They would steal a ship in the harbor if they had to.

But, before they could leave the room, steps sounded in the hall and soon a knock urged them to open the door. Both women froze, staring at the oak door, staring at what it might hold on the other side.

"Your Majesty, 'tis I, Athar. I beg of you to open the door," he said in a calm voice. Leonore went to sit on the bed, holding herself as she realized she wasn't going anywhere.

" _Ouvrez la porte, Claudine_ ," she whispered to her confidant. They would gain nothing by being hostile toward Athar.

The sound of the door opening was the sound of defeat to her. Athar stepped in, followed by the maid who'd run away, just moments before. His eyes scanned the room for Leonore. The Frenchwoman sat on the bed, wrapped in an auburn robe lined in fox fur. She looked at the floor. The steam from the bath clouded the windows, obstructing the light from the sun to enter fully. Dust particles danced in the air as the faint beams filtered through the foggy glass.

Leonore looked at Athar and stood up. Her expression was unreadable at first, but he saw the fear and defeat there after a while. She parted the coat, allowing him a view of her naked body. His eyes ignored the full breasts or the curves of her body. Instead, they went straight to the belly, ever-growing. He did not know how long he'd been staring at it before finally speaking.

"Is it his?" His heart had started beating faster, so fast that he could scarcely hear the clear answer she gave him.

"It is." When she looked at him, it was almost as if daring him to speak. Leonore wondered what Athar would do now.

He pushed the maid outside and closed the door. "How long until you give birth?"

"I cannot be sure, maybe three months, maybe less." Her body had grown tense as he locked the door and commenced pacing back and forth.

"You cannot be here now, it isn't safe." Athar turned to her. Part of him showed anger because she had not confided in him. Another part showed such a degree of happiness that she wondered if he would not jump through the roof. "You should have confided in me!" he exclaimed, running nervous hands through his gray hair.

Leonore closed the coat around her and placed a protective hand on her womb. "We do not want the same thing for this child. I thought Philip would live longer, and that having a child with him would bring me all the happiness in the world. I did not know of his brother's ambitions. It was too late once I found out—I'd already lain with my husband. All I want for my child is that it be brought up in a world that is safe and that it be kept away from this struggle for power."

"Can you not see? That child you carry could remove Magnus from the throne, we could take Angloa back. There would be an end to the fear and the suffering we've had to endure for the last few months!"

"We?" Athars words were expected, but his eagerness and new conviction unsettled her. "This child is mine!"

"That is the child of Philip Fell and it has the right to the throne!" Athar was tired of being diplomatic. He went right to the point.

"And what of Victoria Fell? Did not she have the right to the throne as well?"

"Victoria Fell is a strong and fierce girl, forced into a marriage that will subdue her. And she is a woman, even if I do not fault her for it. Your child would unite the lords against Magnus—"

"What if I give birth to a daughter?" Her words cut Athar short. Before he could answer, she continued. "Just as you said, Victoria Fell, despite being the firstborn to Philip, is a woman nonetheless. So why would my daughter have any more right to the throne than her sister?"

"I guess she doesn't. But if you give birth to a son—"

"We do not know that." She walked toward him. "You do not know that."

Athar let his shoulders sink. He knew Leonore was right. "Even so, you cannot stay in Cantabria anymore. Magnus has spies everywhere, ever paranoid of his lords. He knows claiming the throne from Philip was wrong, he knows he is not loved by his people. The king will know of your condition before the week is over."

"You allow him to have spies in your own home?" Claudine interrupted, her tone offended at the thought.

"Being transparent with him has kept me alive so far. I know one of those maids will no doubt pass on the message to him or the queen, Rebecca. I know where we can send you. But, for all intents and purposes, we must make everyone believe once again that I've sent you to France."

Leonore squared her jawline. It seemed she had little say in the matter. By a curious twist of fate, the only thing that would keep her child with her, was if it was born a girl. Never before had a woman wanted a girl as much as Leonore wanted just then.

"And where will you take me?"

"The Duke of Sorossa is a close friend and ally. He will hide you within his lands until you birth your child. You must understand, Your Majesty, that within that womb you may hold the future of this country," Athar said with such conviction that it was hard for Leonore to not listen to him.

* * *

 _April 4th, 1520_

Only the creaking of the ship and its swaying motion could be heard. There was a peace Isabella had not known for a while. Accustomed to the bustling noise of Constantinople, the strange silence was foreign to her. Thin sunbeams infiltrated the closed space, illuminating the specks of dust that danced in the air. The light was strange—subdued, giving off a feeling of peace and stillness.

The room spanned the width of the stern, lined with large windows, letting in the light of day. Elegant yet worn-down furniture dotted the space. There was a messy desk, holding stacks of maps and quills in heaps. Some ink had spilled, pooling in a strange blackness over the lines that defined an area of the Mediterranean. A small table for two hugged close to the window. Perhaps it was meant for meals, Isabella thought. There were swords and pistols resting against a wall, as well as some barrels—maybe gunpowder, or water were kept in them.

Weapons… her hand came to caress the Damascus blade; Zoráida's knife. She would not need it now, not when she was finally safe. The young woman lavished in such a strange feeling, something she'd not thought possible again: safety.

Her ever watchful eyes drifted to the last section of the room, and to the piece of furniture that seemed most intriguing and daunting to her: the bed. It was large, placed to the left part of the great room. The Captain of the ship had decided to offer his cabin and bed to the two, so that they might reunite in peace. She wondered, however, if the Italian had expected them to do more than resting. Modesty had been thrown out the window the moment Edward and Isabella had been left alone in that desolate room.

The ship swayed again, rocking her like a baby in a cradle. She cared little for modesty. Isabella ignored the thin blue tunic that draped her body. Her arms were exposed, the collarbone as well. The opening in the front exposed the pink trousers beneath, floating around her legs.

The young Angloan stared out the windows, watching the foreign lands disappear as they sailed forth on the sea. As she had been examining the cabin, the presence lurking in the shadows was never far behind. A tingling at the back of her head alerted her that Edward was still there, watching her. He had slipped into the darkness he knew so well and let her settle, not wanting to disturb her—not yet.

Edward drank the sight of her outlined silhouette against the faint beams. Her figure appeared almost ethereal to him—otherworldly.

She was here. His Isabella was in his chambers.

"I never knew the sea like this." Her voice was subdued, afraid to disturb the tranquility inside that cabin. She and Edward had scarcely spoken ever since they had arrived.

"Like what?" His voice was gentle as well. But it stirred something within her. It was powerful and masculine, yet soft—caressing her without ever having touched her.

She turned to meet him, her face brightened by a heartwarming smile. "I never knew the sea would be so wonderful." Then she looked down, almost as if embarrassed. "Or maybe it is the company that has me in such high spirits," she murmured. Isabella glanced up again at him. She could not discern him in the shadows until a pair of green eyes shone through. They looked back at her and the edges creased in a soft smile. She had kept her distance from Edward as they arrived on the ship, afraid of what might happen the moment they were reunited. She wanted to kiss him, to hold him and more. Her body shivered at the thought, but it was inviting nonetheless.

The look she sent him was all Edward needed. He left the wall he'd been leaning against and went over to her in quick strides. He had not crossed the Mediterranean to just watch her from the distance like an awkward teenager.

When he neared the young woman, he was mindful of his actions. Edward took great care in not brashly taking her in his arms. He had not had the strength to ask her just what she had endured in Braun's company.

Instead, he neared her from behind, his step silent, his breath deep. Isabella's whole body tingled when she felt his hot breath touch her neck. She closed her eyes and let the moment take her away. A gloved hand carefully pushed the loose hair to one side. The touch of the cold glove on her flesh made her skin prickle up even more and heat radiated through in a steady pulse. He saw the effect on her and slowly let his fingers glide over that smooth skin, irritated when the cloth of the tunic stopped him from going further. So, instead, his lips traveled down.

She felt those soft lips trail across her neck and bare shoulder and she let out a sigh. Isabella turned around then, wanting more of him. Edward's arm grabbed her waist and carefully pressed her closer to him. She let herself fall into his embrace and willingly displayed her lips as his own came crashing down on her.

Their kiss was deep, slow and teasing at first, but growing more passionate by the minute. Isabella had never felt such conviction in her feelings before. Every inch of her wanted to be in his embrace, to feel his lips on hers. When they had said goodbye in Wessport, they had kissed, but not like this.

Edward could not control himself. He desperately wanted to have her then, but it was not time, not yet. It was too early—there was much they had to speak of first. Alas, rational thought could not fight against yearning and basic instinct.

Her hands traveled up his broad back and came to rest at the base of his neck. She kissed him back with more passion, their tongues dancing together inside their mouths as their panting was all that could be heard inside the cabin.

Being parted for so long had only increased their want for one another. They no longer tried to hide it. Instead, Edward and Isabella embraced the moment and each other. She started getting carried away as she tasted his sweet lips. The sea had graced them and Edward tasted like the fresh and salty water that carried the vessel. But he also tasted like the sun that bore down on them, its beams penetrating the enclosed space—watchful of their loving embrace.

But when her hands mindlessly started fumbling with the laces at the base of his neck, trying to loosen the cords, he pulled away. She had never looked so delicious to him as then. Her dark hair framed a flushed face, a delicate frown gracing it. Her lips were parted, swollen from their kiss.

"Wait," he panted, grabbing her and placing her at arm's length. His chest heaved as he regained his breath, surprised at the ardor their kiss had carried. Edward looked away as he squared his jaw—he knew this would happen, eventually, if he kept going.

"I was just… I got carried away by the moment—". She expected a reprimand, but it seemed he had no ill words for her. She tried to discern the expression behind the leather that shielded his face. But she only saw it in his eyes and tense mouth; a hint of fatigue, but not physical fatigue.

"I want you, Isabella." His answer was unexpected, to say the least. It was blunt and to the point. "I will not pretend otherwise. But I cannot, because having you while hiding my face would feel wrong. It would feel as if I was deceiving you."

Edward became more human in her eyes as he revealed his weakness. It was as if their time apart had changed him as well. The green depths of his eyes bared themselves before her and his arms on her shoulders grew tense when she did not answer right away.

"I do not care what you may hide behind that mask, Edward. When Braun hauled me across the ocean, I thought you were dead." There was a sort of detachment in her voice when she remembered what she had endured on Braun's ship. "He told me he had slain you and exposed you to the world. It crushed me, and it made me realize that I cannot be parted from you. When Jacob told me you were alive—when I saw you on that cliff, I thought I had been given another chance."

She cast her eyes to the ground, a chuckle escaping her. But the laugh was laced with hurt and a sadness he wished would be gone from her voice. "I wish I could travel back in time and scold myself at Adelton Hall. I was a silly girl, too vain for my own good. But I have come to accept you now." She walked toward him and brushed her hand against his cheek. "I do not need to see what hides behind this mask. Not yet, if you are not ready."

Her words surprised him to such a degree that Edward had to remain silent for a long while. He had never in a million years thought she would speak in such a manner.

"I—" but before he could muster up enough sense to construct a single sentence, her lips crashed down on his once more. He felt her smile against him, pleased that she; Isabella Swan, had managed to startle the great Edward Cullen with her words.

Their kiss intensified and before they knew it, her hand reached for his doublet, working fervently to remove the bulky object from his body. It landed on the floor with a thud while he slowly guided them to the bed. Her hands explored his chest, only a thin shirt separating her hands from touching his bare skin.

Edward placed a strong arm around her lithe form and slowly lowered them on the soft bed, breathing in her scent, listening to her soft sighs and moans that escaped her every so often. She kept her hands away from the ties of his mask, and focused on the exposed skin of his neck, on his torso that hovered above her. Every touch their flesh made was like a spark of delicious electricity coursing through them both, raising their pulses and yearning even more.

His hand started undoing the buttons of her own tunic. Isabella fumbled out of the garment and cast it aside, only a thin piece of muslin protected her body from his eyes. The pink trousers were soon cast aside and all she wore was the thin dress that did little to hide her long chemise. But as Edward started tugging at the strap of one shoulder, painful memories emerged.

It was no longer Edward who straddled her, who conquered her mouth with his own and all her senses. There was no longer a soft bed beneath her, molding against her back like a feathery cloud. She no longer smelled the fresh scent of sandalwood and pine, nor tasted the sun or sea on his lips. Instead, she felt the hard floor scrape against her bare skin, chapped lips trying to force her mouth open. The stench of alcohol and rotting teeth as rough hands pinned her down.

At first, she fought against the memory, but the nausea of what was playing in her mind was too much. Isabella shivered as her mouth stopped responding to his kisses. A sense of claustrophobia overcame her as his large form dwarfed hers. Her breaths stopped being deep and grew shallow and tense as she began pushing against him.

"N-no!" she suddenly exclaimed as she darted past him and to the foot of the bed. Isabella held the white muslin tight around her as she trembled, shutting her eyes tight and fighting against her fears.

Edward stared, turning to sit on the bed, wide-eyed and with guilt and pain in every ounce of his being. He did not know what he had done, but he was certain it was his fault.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked carefully. His voice was low, rough and laced with worry. He was mindful to give the woman her space as he kept away.

"No. I just thought I could handle it," she whimpered, but more to herself than to him. The words were like a hard blow to him. Was she forcing herself to bed him because of the gratitude she held toward him? Or was it pity? Edward clenched his fists and got up from the bed.

But then another sickening thought emerged. He walked over to her and saw her shiver still, trying to regain her composure. It was then that his eyes first witnessed her bare back. The wounds had all but healed, but the faint outlining of scars was enough to make him shiver with anger. The rays of the sun illuminated the scarred tissue on her back. It was barely visible, but it dotted the whole of it, in strange patterns. They were not from a whip, nor from a knife. He could not discern where she could have gotten them.

Edward carefully sat down next to her and trailed across them. The cool touch of his glove managed to calm her despite his nearness. She kept telling herself that it was Edward.

"Braun?" His question was simple as he could not utter more words. He was afraid the raging tone of his voice would only scare her further away from him.

"No," she reassured him. But something in her voice betrayed her.

"He touched you." The growl sounded like a predator ready to strike, ready to wreak havoc. He became furious, blinded with rage.

But, in that moment of anger, she reached out. "Braun did not touch me." Her voice was flat and her expression unreadable. Isabella masked her pain at seeing him thus. It was her fault that Edward had worried so for her. "The first night on that ship I was given a small cabin… It did not have a lock."

He knew where her story was going, but he did not have the heart to hear it. Yet, Edward kept silent, sensing that she needed to tell him. Her clenched fist let go of the white muslin, the wrinkled fabric fell against the swell of her bosom.

"A man from his group, drunk and stupid, came to me, knowing well the door would be unlocked." She drew a deep breath, feeling the knot in her stomach lessen as she kept speaking. She had not the heart, however, to meet his eyes as she kept retelling and reliving what had transpired. "He knocked me down to the floor, which was filthy and its boards had grown old. Splinters pierced my skin when I tried to fight him off. It was Braun who heard my screams and got to me before it was too late. He saved me in that instance. But I hold little gratitude toward him since it would never have happened if he had not kidnapped me." Her eyes slowly trailed up to meet his. Isabella half expected the fury to be more intense, and the severity in his expression more prevalent. But, instead, she only found comfort in them. Edward listened to her without judgment.

"He never had me as his," her voice trembled. Isabella's tired head came to rest against his chest and she refrained from saying much else. His body against her felt right. The heartbeat in his chest was a comforting sound, reminding her that Edward was very much alive and there in her presence.

"He cannot touch you now," the rich voice whispered in her ear as he took her carefully in his arms. His whisper tickled and sent another shiver down her spine.

She smiled against his chest. "Maybe we should take it slow. We will have plenty of time to…" she blushed when she thought of what they had almost done. They had not yet even married! Edward's deep chuckle rumbled in his chest at the signs of her sudden embarrassment.

"As long as I can hold you in my arms, I do not care how long I have to wait," the voice murmured against her head. The warm breath and comforting hands gently caressing her upper arms soothed her.

For the first time, Isabella felt true fatigue claim her body. Her eyes drooped and a yawn escaped her. When Edward saw this he started moving away. "You should rest. I will come back later—"

"The bed is big enough for us both. I imagine you have not had much sleep tonight either," she smiled. He had not had much sleep the last few months without her by his side.

"It would not be proper," he smirked. The phrase made Isabella scoff. A few moments ago he had almost made love to her.

"To hell with propriety!" she exclaimed. Isabella ripped off the covers and settled under them, propping her head on the pillow and watching him. She wanted to see what he would do. Edward reasoned that they would soon be man and wife, either way. He removed his boots and sank down next to her. The moments they were covered, she nestled against him. In a heartbeat, the young woman had fallen into a deep sleep, and Edward soon followed.

That was how Carlisle found them, many hours later. Completely exhausted and nestled in each other's arms.

 _April 7th_

"Salted meats again?" Jacob watched the sorry piece of meat, dryer than sand, harder than a rock, grace the metal plate. He gave out a frustrated sigh. Isabella ceremoniously ate the food given to her, trying to cheer the men up.

"At least we have food!" she tried. But even Carlisle and Lorenzo, the captain, looked reluctantly at the meat.

Edward had given up on his portion as well, instead opting for a dry piece of bread, washed down with some Madeira. "Unless you have the strength for rat-hunting I suggest we dock in the nearest port soon. We need supplies if we are going to reach Rome," he offered. Their fresh water was running out and the only food left was some rotting vegetables and dried up pieces of salted meats.

"You do not need to tell me twice," the captain said as he tossed the meat, dismayed at the harsh clanking sound it made upon contact with the plate. "But we are far from any big port, which might be the better. We are days off the coast of Greece, I suspect we could find what we need on one of the many islands before passing Syracuse."

"We only need enough to reach Sicily?" Carlisle asked.

"Better to get proper supplies in a friendly port than a foreign one. Greece is under Ottoman rule, who knows if Miss Swan's sudden _departure_ from the city will go ignored. An island will be less connected with any of the bigger cities," the captain reasoned.

"We should go, I cannot stand another dinner of bread and wine," Jacob said, wrinkling his nose.

"We are in no rush to return," Edward said in his rich voice. "If it were me, I'd rather return to Angloa when spring arrives. I've no qualms with missing the worst of winter," he said, bringing his cup up for a toast.

"Hear hear!" Carlisle agreed, toasting as the rest around the table did.

"I wonder what His Majesty might have done with the rest of the traitors," Isabella pondered. "I received no news of Wessport all the time I was away. Maybe when we dock there might be news of Angloa. Besides, I… eh, need some clothes." She refrained from blushing but did not hide her discomfort at being so lightly dressed in the company of so many men. Despite Edward's cape shielding some of her modesty, the thin blue tunic and light pink trousers seemed more like a nightgown to her than any real clothing.

"It seems we dock for you then as well," Jacob chuckled.

They all continued speaking in light tones. Everything had gone well, Isabella was safe, they were headed back to Angloa. Yet, Edward seemed distant when he was not otherwise engaged in conversation. She saw something irked his mind but refrained from asking him.

Later that night, watching the stars on deck, Carlisle neared him, a cup of wine in hand and a peaceful expression on his face.

"Things could not have gone better," Carlisle offered, the frisky breeze of the Mediterranean drifted by, carrying a light shower of the sea, spraying their faces.

"Hmm," was all he got in return. The eyes never left the black horizon, the mouth always in a thin line and a gloved hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Edward was tense, and it showed. Something irked him, something he put little effort in hiding.

"So what's wrong then?"

"Nothing."

A scoff followed the answer. Carlisle crossed his arms and leaned against the railing of the ship. "Come come, Edward. I've known you long enough. That mask—," he said, pointing to the leather hood. "—cannot hide all of you."

At the mention of the mask, Edward's head dropped slightly, defeat shining through his otherwise harsh demeanor. "Do you remember, on our way here, how you spoke of this mask?" he asked, his voice solemn and tense. It was almost as if he were testing Carlisle, keen on what his answer would be next. The other started understanding in which direction their conversation was going.

"Yes…" he answered, unsure of what else to say. He had not forgotten that evening, spent arguing with Edward inside their shared cabin. Their friendship had gone through a rough patch when he had touched an uncomfortable subject: that of Edward's mask.

The defeat was more prevalent now as, for the first time ever, Edward trusted enough in Carlisle to open up to him. He leaned against the wooden railing as well, the broad shoulders sinking down toward the wooden flooring of the ship. Edward kept his stoic demeanor, still too proud to keep going. His hesitation pushed Carlisle to continue speaking.

"Are you planning to reveal your face to Isabella?" he asked with hope in his voice. Had Edward seen reason? All of them saw the affection both held for one another, he was certain Isabella would accept what lay hidden beneath that mask.

But the empty look Carlisle received and the squared jaw told him a different tale. Edward had realized that could never be the case. He had pushed himself into a corner now, knowing well that there was no easy way out. "I would have liked that very much—to cast aside this mask, but it cannot be," he lamented. The defeat in his tone stopped Carlisle from protesting. He had never heard anyone so utterly crushed before. "I never thought she'd… actually _want_ to ever see my face," he whispered, the words fleeting and subdued.

Carlisle tried to find some reassuring words, but what could he say? He had no idea as to what extent the damage was to his face. "Perhaps you do not need to fully remove the mask? There is nothing wrong with showing your face only to Isabella," he tried to reassure him.

The chuckle he received lacked any spirit, any strength. Even when they had set out to find Isabella, Edward had managed to keep his spirits high—he found it was the only way to stay sane. But now—when he had reached his goal, there was nothing left. "Maybe someday," he whispered to himself distantly.

"And maybe you would trust Jacob and me someday as well," Carlisle said, nearing his friend. He placed a heavy hand on the other's shoulder. "I know we do not speak much, Edward. But both you and Jacob are like brothers to me. I would never ridicule any of you. And just as I place my complete faith and trust in you both, you may do the same with me."

In the distance, they saw a faint light contrast against the darkness. It was most likely a lighthouse to some distant shore or harbor. "I know," came the reply. It was followed by a little smile. Edward had never doubted himself as much before. This whole journey had been not only to save Isabella—he realized doubts and fears had festered in his mind about himself. It seemed they were fears he had ignored for too long and they had finally emerged.

Edward then cleared his throat. "Ignore this conversation ever happened," he muttered as he turned to Carlisle, his pride never far behind.

 _April 10th_

Seawater splashed against the ship as the winds tore at their clothing and hair. Ominous clouds gathered around them as they reached the beach of Andros. Their ship could not enter the shallow waters and there was no harbor. Edward, Isabella, and some others descended on the small Greek island, looking around. The place was all but deserted. It seemed a storm was quickly blowing their way and few of the townspeople wanted to venture out in anticipation of its force.

"Jacob, Carlisle, go with the other men to gather supplies. Isabella and I will venture into town for information and some gowns for her. We meet back here in three hours, ready to sail again. We must leave the storm behind us or get trapped in here," Edward shouted over the strong winds. He received stiff nods.

They all went on their way. Edward pulled the hood down lower. One of the ship's sailors accompanied them—one of the few who spoke Greek. They ventured to a local seamstress who could give Isabella some dresses that had been declined by her buyers. The price suited them as well as the dresses. Meanwhile, Edward told the sailor, Stavros, to ask around for any information about Angloa. But the island was a small one and it kept better information on the Ottomans than it did on the western lands. They were told that many fishers would venture as far as Mitilini with their boats—just south of Çanakkale, on Lesbos. If they'd wanted information they should've gone there. But Edward was not too keen on sailing back. Who knew if they were being followed.

He was discouraged from asking more questions and decided that they would figure it out in Syracuse—surely Sicily would be better informed.

Isabella walked out of the shop. She was still mesmerized by the city. All the houses were whitewashed, some accented in blue. The seamstress' shop lay nestled between a small, Orthodox Church and a taller building. The flowers outside the houses made them all look inviting. The streets were surprisingly clean and void of people. The woman had warned them to reach their ship—a storm was coming. Spring usually brought with it harsh rains that could last days. They could be stuck on this side of the island since the waterways would change as the levels rose, not letting them pass south between the small stretch of their island and the neighboring one.

They rushed to meet Jacob, Carlisle and the other sailors who'd gathered supplies. When all gathered near the loaded boats, they stared in awe at the high waves just off the reef nestled close to the island. Getting out to the open sea would prove a difficult challenge.

"Maybe we should spend the night here?" Jacob yelled over the harsh winds. He did not like the look of those ominous clouds, the raging wind, and the towering waves. But even if he feared the waters, fishermen still set out. Edward looked grim as they disappeared from their view. He was more preoccupied with what those fishermen might tell in neighboring ports. They were still not far away enough from Constantinople; even here the force of the Ottomans—or even Braun—could reach them.

He did not wish to stay.

"We head for the ship and wait out the worst of it. I want to be gone from this place as soon as possible." He could not explain the feeling that nestled within his stomach. Edward knew his instincts were screaming at him—something was wrong, or soon would be. He had always listened to those instincts—alas, he knew not exactly what they were telling him now. Surely, it could not be that he should sail off so soon and in such weather? Surely, his instincts must be warning against the roughness of Mother Nature. He comforted himself that it was the case and kept his grim countenance to himself as they sailed onward to their ship.

 _April 16th_

The storms had kept them in port far too long. Lorenzo had grown weary, paranoid that word of their presence might escape the islands.

But a day later they were on their way, leaving behind azure waters and paradise islands, sailing west, for safe territory and for home.

Edward had never been in Syracuse, he'd only heard of the city—known both for its trade and presence in the myths of old. Isabella had been distant ever since their attempt at lovemaking. He understood, she did not wish to breach that tender subject. But, Isabella found it hard to lie with him, afraid that her body would strongly react against him once he lay over her. She was afraid that such a reaction would never disappear. They were content to just lie in bed, wrapped in a warm embrace, nestled together and share warmth. However, for Edward it took more restraint and focus, as his whole body responded to her nearness. But he never spoke of this.

Early spring was usually the time for rains in Angloa, while it was the time for storms in the eastern part of the Mediterranean, it seemed. The weighing gray clouds did not let up even if the strong winds and storms did. Rain always threatened to fall and the thunder was never far behind.

Sailing in such conditions should've worried him, but Edward found an odd peace in the loaded air. The metallic tang to the winds, the essence of the sea, the song of the seagull was a reminder of his freedom. He could see it in Isabella too. The way her eyes closed as she stood on deck, enjoying the moment of bliss. Her eyes shut and her face welcomed the breeze as it tore at her loose hair. She enjoyed her freedom much more than he did, it seemed. They were—or had been—prisoners in different senses. Edward's cage rested around his face, while Isabella had spent the last few months living enclosed in exotic finery—in a world she did not know. She sometimes wondered what would've become of her if she'd not jumped out of that window. But as soon as her eyes caught sight of Edward, the warmth and butterflies springing to life in her stomach reminded her that she'd taken the right decision. Whenever she saw him, she could not help but smile, but think herself the luckiest woman in the world. It was a strange sensation to know such happiness after so much suffering—to them both.

Isabella was almost against returning back to Angloa. Wandering around free, with Edward by her side, without court intrigue or polite society to worry about, gave her an insight into what his world had been before receiving his title. Isabella liked this life and hoped their return to their home would be further delayed.

Therefore, knowing they were close to Syracuse, to western civilization, was not encouraging for any of them. It meant they were one step closer to the confinements of Angloa, and thus of their respective positions in life. But Isabella argued to herself that at least they had each other.

Edward, on the other hand, felt that—the closer they got to Angloa, the more his mind was invaded by preoccupations.

He had left a mess behind. The treason, secrecy and hidden alliances had been a big headache for him. Athar had confided in him of the secret daughter of Leonore Valois and Philip Fell. Athar knew there was still someone out there, wanting the crown. Edward wondered where this person hid. The English had started a war out of nowhere with them, at their weakest. Could they be backing this mysterious woman? If the English won, she could be made the puppet ruler, rule under their supervision, maybe marry one of their own. When he got back, he knew there would be unanswered questions.

Even Isabella and his friends knew little of what had happened in Angloa. Jacob kept what had been told to him a secret—alas Edward had mentioned some of it to Carlisle, but not everything. He'd kept most of it from Isabella.

It was nightfall when their ship passed the coastline of Italy. They had crossed the Ionian Sea quicker than expected, all because the favorable winds left over from the storm. Syracuse was only half a day away at best.

It was then that they saw it, a ship clinging to the horizon. A steersman had seen it first, from the mast of their ship. It appeared to be a harmless trading boat. But when they caught sight of the Ottoman flag, many felt their hearts jump within their chests.

"Do you think it follows us?" asked Carlisle as harsh eyes regarded the vessel, sailing onward.

"It is too early to tell. Night falls, we could sail past the point by Messina and see if it follows. Otherwise, we could hide on the other side of the island," Edward murmured, thinking aloud.

"Who do you suppose would follow us?" Isabella had joined them. Her eyes never left the small point on the horizon.

"Who would most lose from your escape in the city?" Carlisle asked.

"I was to be sold to either the Royal Harem or to a powerful lord by Braun. It could be Lord Hassan who has sent people to capture me. But it would be odd, he never struck me as a man to go to such lengths."

"Then there is only one option left." Edward's growl was dangerously low as his gaze pierced the ship.

"It could still only be a trading ship, merchants. We all know the Venetians trade with them," Carlisle speculated, growing tense at his friend's display of ferocity. Having known him for so long did still not prepare him for the displays of ferocity.

"I take no chances. Tell the captain we sail by Messina, where the peninsula and Sicily meet. We hide by the beach until the ship has passed."

He walked away, followed by an inquiring Isabella. "Do you really think Braun would have followed us?" she asked, her hand trailing to find Zoráida's knife tied to her waist.

"Judging from the sheer hate he had toward me, it would not surprise me."

Isabella knew of that hate. But she also knew she had herself offended and played Braun. She worried how much of his anger would be placed on her. But the young woman refused to be frightened. She brushed it off as mere paranoia on all their parts. They had been living at court too long, always expecting the worst.

When night settled—when darkness pressed against them, they only sailed with help from the half-moon. They would take no chances, hoping that putting out the lights on the ship would make them invisible to the vessel behind them. But it seemed it had disappeared in the night fog.

They found a small beach where the water was deep enough for the ship to enter. They would stay there until dawn, and then leave, knowing they would lose the boat that way.

All were asleep, Edward and Isabella shared warmth as the hours of the night passed by. But, soon, Edward's senses alerted him. He sprang to his feet, clad only in his hoses and thin cotton shirt. He reached for his sword while Isabella woke, dazed and confused. But as soon as she heard signs of struggle coming from upper deck, her senses came alive as well. Her heart beat louder than it ever had before and horror took over. It seemed her nightmare would never end. Edward pressed a finger to his lips, motioning for her to be silent. Isabella reached for the dagger, tucked away in its white sheath.

He pressed his ear to their closed door and opened it when no sound came from the other side. His whole body grew tense as the boot-clad feet moved with swift agility over the floorboards—not a sound evoked.

The sound of a fight grew louder when he reached upper deck. They had mere hours before dawn, yet it was starting to get lighter and lighter. He opened the doors with a small push, dismayed as he found the whole deck of the ship a battlefield. The sailors fought as best as they could against the invaders.

Edward saw Carlisle and Jacob only in trousers, brandish swords against brutes and ruffians. He saw none he recognized. Perhaps they were pirates, having seen them the other day, crossing the Ionian Sea.

Edward jumped in, brandishing his own sword and knife, fighting them off as best he could. But they were many and the men of the ships were sailors, not warriors. Carlisle and Jacob stared with grim faces as their numbers lessened. The masked man heard the shouts of the enemy—they were Angloan, to his utter surprise.

A wall of men stormed his way and as light continued to crawl over the horizon, he never saw the men behind him, one of them aiming the butt of their sword against his skull. Edward fell hard on his front dropping his weapons as his body came into contact with the hard wood of the ship. His vision blurred as Carlisle, Jacob and Lorenzo were the only remaining fighting men. They surrendered when they caught sight of their fallen General. His vision started failing him as a pair of boots stopped inches from his face.

"Get the girl," came a grim and familiar voice. Edward recognized Braun's harsh tone before he blacked out from the blow to his head.

* * *

 **A/N: I am so grateful for all the reviews on the last chapter! Glad you liked their reunion scene. I had written a few different ones, but the one I decided to go with felt the most natural. I hope you don't despise me for putting our lovely leads through so much hehe.**

 **I've been seeing in the comments that some of you have been recommending my fic(s) out there. That is amazing and I give special thanks to those who put down extra time to "pimp this fic"! I keep telling people that I seriously have the best readers out there!**

 **I hope you have liked this chapter and if you did, please do leave a comment. They are always so lovely to read 3**

 **Cheers!**


	15. Chapter 15

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 15_

 _March 10th, 1493 – Sorossa_

" _I will hide you so that even the Lord himself may not find you."_

The words still rang in her ears as the small, modest carriage took them across the breathtaking landscape. They were in Sorossa, just having met the Duke of the region himself. Leonore stared out the small wooden hole that made up the window as she caressed the swollen belly. When her eyes had caught sight of the Duke's infant son—Emmett Saxton, she had felt her heart speed up. Every ounce of her being hoped that it was a girl that she carried within her womb.

The valleys here had started turning green as the spring arrived. Claudine and Leonore heard the singing of the birds in every corner. The noblewomen were not accustomed to such simple dress.

They had gone completely undercover. No longer were they of noble birth, nor French. Leonore was a simple mayor's widow—sent to his only surviving estate. Claudine was to be her sister.

"To think of you as a mayor's widow, how condescending," Claudine sneered as she looked away from the lush valley.

"Magnus will be looking for a king's widow. I cannot go around pretending to be something I am not anymore."

"Which is?"

"A queen," the young woman said. She should have felt saddened by the fact that she no longer held such a prominent title. But the moment the title of royalty was dispersed, it was if as the burden had completely lifted from her shoulders. She felt freer as a commoner than she ever had as a queen.

"And to think that we may not even speak our language anymore," Claudine muttered under her breath.

Indeed, Leonore thought. It was strange to converse with her handmaiden in English when they had been speaking in French all their lives.

"They will be looking for Frenchwomen as well, Claudine," she whispered, but mostly to herself.

Claudine wrinkled her nose at the inconvenience of their situation. Leonore had not the strength to be offended so Claudine was offended for the both of them.

"Perhaps, but we could never pass off as Portuguese. I don't speak a lick of the language!" she said in a hushed voice, her tone laced with indignation. "And we do not even look Portuguese!"

All Leonore could do was to roll her eyes at the woman. This was not the time for such childish behavior. More things were at stake than her pride.

"I will endure it all if it means to protect my child," she said in a curt voice. "And I will have no more of these outbursts, Claudine. Our situation could be much worse."

The Frenchwoman settled down and bowed her head as a sign of submission. "Very well."

The rest of the ride went by in silence. Every so often, Leonore felt the small kicks in her womb and her heart soared, both from joy and from fear.

It wasn't until the afternoon that they neared their destination. In the heart of Sorossa, Duke Rudolph Saxton had a small hunting cabin that had been ignored for decades. The locals had soon forgotten it belonged to the Duke and presumed the owner had just left the building unattended. Leonore and Claudine would live right outside the village of Easthall.

It was a small, insignificant village in the heart of the province, away from prying eyes and indifferent to the atrocities that went on in the rest of the world. The villagers seemed trapped within their own little bubble.

The carriage took them past the outskirts of the modest village, toward the house. Leonore noted how they passed a small farm. The house only had one story, but it clung to a grouping of trees before the cultivated lands rolled into soft hills toward the horizon. She saw a woman disciplining some children before catching sight of their carriage.

"I suppose those are to be our neighbors," Claudine said after a while, stifling a yawn.

Leonore looked away. She'd never truly had a neighbor. Something deep within her settled. As she looked at the growing stomach a new hope formed within her mind. Perhaps she could make a life here. She had been given an opportunity. Perhaps it was time to start over.

Their cottage stood by some tall oak trees. She saw a quaint little stable hugging the main of the house. Only emerald hills rolled around them after that. In the distant horizon to the west, the young woman could see the village. To the southeast, she thought herself perceive the distant Durun Mountains.

The carriage stopped and the driver got off, opening the door for them and helping both women descend. Claudine let out a frightened "eek" as she walked straight into a pack of stray chickens.

"Oh dear, you have arrived!" someone yelled from the door of the cottage. Leonore perceived a small creek hugging the house and a waterwheel turning with the force of the running water. The voice belonged to a middle-aged man. He had a patch over his right eye and his torn clothes did not fit well with his somewhat chubby physique. But, despite his strange appearance and dress, Leonore feared that those were the best clothes he owned.

"When they told me we'd be having a mayor's widow living amongst us, I think my sisters and my wife must have jumped through the roof," the man said as he walked to greet them. Leonore kept her mouth in a thin line.

"Does my brother in law's death bring that much joy to you?" Claudine asked as she firmly placed her hands on her hips.

The man grew flustered at this. "I…what? N-no, of course not!" he then turned to Leonore and saw her raised eyebrow. "I extend my sincerest apologies if my remark offended you, my lady. You see, we do not usually get such fine folk around these parts here," he began. Leonore had never seen a man in such high spirits before. And she wondered what kind of people might live within the vicinity if she, a supposed mayor's widow, was the "finest folk" they had ever seen. She had to fight a chuckle when she imagined his reaction at realizing who she truly was.

"I am Gary Smith, one of the local farmers here. We were told by your friend, this Thomas fellow, that you would need help settling," he said. Gary caught sight of her stomach and suddenly seemed to understand why both women were in need of assistance.

"I could send for one of my sisters to further assis—"

"That will not be necessary, Mr. Smith," Leonore said as she stepped past him to get a better view of the cottage. The eastern part of the roof had fallen in and she suspected the spring rains might have already damaged the inside of the house. The woman stared dismayed at the scene before her, knowing there was a lot of work to be done.

"We have already sent for maids and some workers for the cottage." She was grateful that Lord Saxton had been willing to help her acquire some maids and workers. She had no mind for nosy country people to invade her life. Leonore only wanted peace and tranquility.

"Oh," Gary murmured, almost dismayed that his sisters would not get the pleasure of meeting any of the distinguished ladies. "Well, I will show you the house and show you the rooms we've prepared for you. There is only one place left in the building fit for living. Lucky for you, spring arrived early, and summer is just around the corner. The kitchen needs to be cleaned so cooking food there will not be possible. I will send my wife with some essentials for you, in either case," the pudgy man said with a small smile. He then started directing the driver as to where to put the trunks.

Once Leonore and Claudine were left alone, Leonore let a shaky sigh escape her. "Maybe I was too harsh with him," she lamented. She had not liked the tone in which she'd spoken with him.

She felt Claudine's hand on her shoulder and turned to stare into the black eyes meeting hers. "This is new for us, _Majest_ — my lady. We will have to adapt," her eyes trailed down to look at the belly. "You will be strong for your child, I know you will," her handmaiden said. That Claudine was there with her gave Leonore comfort. It was some time now that Leonore knew Claudine had grown to be much more than just her handmaiden-she was her sister, and she was her most trusty friend in the world.

 _April 10th, 1493 – Sorossa_

Leonore found it harder and harder to do mundane tasks. A week after having moved in, the house staff had arrived. Working their way around the cottage became easier for both Leonore and Claudine. Two weeks after that, with the help of the footmen and some of the villagers, the broken roof had been fixed and the rooms that had once been leaked in were now repaired.

Leonore got a room for herself with a larger, more comfortable bed. She found it harder and harder to sleep comfortably at nights. Any position would eventually burden her back to the point where only sitting up and resting against the wooden frame of the bed would alleviate the pain.

But she found herself happy and content with her new life in the country. The Smiths, their neighbors, proved to be the best neighbors anyone could have ever hoped for. Anne, Gary's lovely wife, had given birth to a healthy little girl just a week prior. This was the first day she had ventured to their cottage, bearing—as always, a basket of delicious loaves of bread and pastries.

Leonore brushed the dirt away from her sweaty brow as she let go of the broom when she heard the sound of horse hooves.

"Oh but heavens, Andreia, you should not be working at all!" Anne said the moment she caught sight of Leonore sweeping the front of the house.

"And you should be home resting," she said. Leonore still had to get used to her new name.

Anne pushed a blond lock away from her brow and adjusted the thick, gray shawl around her shoulders. Nestled against her bosom, was her child, tightly wrapped in yards and yards of linen, cotton, and wool.

The April air was still chilly and Leonore's brow furrowed as she caught sight of the child. "Should she really be out in this cold?"

Anne stepped down from the carriage as her oldest son, Nicolas, guided it to stand by the small stable. He was only seven but he worked as much and as hard as any boy twice his age. The basket Anne had prepared for Leonore and Claudine dwarfed him as he pulled it out of the small carriage.

"I wanted you to see her," Anne exclaimed as she walked over. "I know you will have one of your own soon, but I wanted you to lay your eyes on my precious treasure." Leonore noted the proud gleam in Anne's eyes and it warmed the young woman to the core. She knew she would soon feel that same pride, that same warmth and love for the child that was soon to enter the world.

Yet, as the date for the birth neared, a gripping fear had started taking over her. She started having nightmares, started playing over scenarios of what might happen to her child if it was born male.

"Here, hold her," Anne said as she placed the sleeping girl in Leonore's arms. Leonore could not believe how small and helpless the infant was. And instead of feeling a longing to hold her own child in her arms, she now only felt utter and complete terror at the prospect.

* * *

 _April 16th, 1520 – Coast of Sicily_

A splitting headache greeted Edward the moment he opened his eyes. He closed them immediately, what little light that filtered through the space was like a dagger inside his head. The migraine was particularly bad where he had received the blow. When he winced from his pain, others there perked up.

"He made a sound!" said one voice, the sound painful in his ears. He just wanted peace and quiet.

"At least he is alive," came a more subdued tone—Carlisle.

It was then that he noticed his arms hanging above him—making him almost suspended from the floor. A chain dragged across the beam in the lower deck of the ship and kept him in place. "Not again," he murmured, his voice rough and his lips slightly chapped. Memories of Rome entered his mind as the sense of déjà vu would not evade him.

"Yes, again," Carlisle echoed, irritable.

Edward rose his head and opened his eyes. He regretted his action as a wave of pain washed over him. They were in the lowest compartment of the ship, where few things were kept as it was always damp and unpleasant. The few surviving sailors had been tied to one side. Carlisle, Jacob, and Edward had all been tied to the beam, suspended over the floor, hanging from the low ceiling. Their weapons had been taken and it looked like some men had been brutally beaten half to death before being imprisoned.

"What happened?" his voice echoed in the large space. A few faint sunbeams filtered through the sparse planks that made up the roof.

"Braun, he actually followed us," Jacob said in utter disbelief. "He must really hate you." When Edward cast him a raging glance, the young man instantly shut his mouth.

"I suspect he must have fled Constantinople soon after we left, asking around each harbor until arriving in Greece. We should never have docked there," Carlisle lamented.

"Where is Isabella?" A sense of panic grew as he saw no sign of her anywhere.

"Up there, with him." Carlisle bit his teeth together. Edward tried to pull against his restraints, but the metal only cut into his gloves, bruising his skin.

"How could he have caught up with us so quickly? How could he have found us?" the Italian Captain said in disbelief.

"The storm," Edward answered back. "While we waited it out, Braun must have braved through it." He fought against the metal cuffs again, bringing his feet up against the beam, pressing against it while pulling at the cuffs, but it was no use.

"We've tried that." Jacob's wrists were bleeding, indicating he must've been at it for a long time. For the first time, Edward wondered how long he'd been unconscious.

"How long was I out?"

"Long. It is afternoon at least," came an accented voice from the other side of the room. "But Braun doesn't want them to bring any of us up yet. I heard him tell them to alert him once you were awake. Two of his men have come down here about every other hour to check on us, to check on you." There was a tone of defeat in the Captain's voice as he spoke. He was afraid and with every right. Braun had been angered to a point where Edward wondered how much torture he would suffer before he was killed. A chill went through his spine, he wondered how much of it he would endure.

* * *

"I want to see him!"

"You are in no position to demand anything of me!" Braun was furious but triumphant. He had found them and imprisoned them. The ship was now his own personal torture chamber. There would be many hours he could enjoy playing with all of them.

Isabella was tied to the bed, unmoving whenever he got close to her. Braun had straddled her a few times, to see her reaction. But when her face remained a hard mask, he got off her in frustration.

"Pathetic," she laughed after his third try. She knew he did not dare take her—but she did not know the reason. A slap sounded in the cabin, jumping against the walls. Another came crashing down.

"You will find that I'm not as agreeable as I was in Constantinople, wench!" But Isabella never cried out, nor let her tears fall. Her indifference to him was the opposite. He wanted her to be afraid, to beg on her knees.

"How did Lord Hassan take the news of my departure?" came the mocking voice from the bed. When he did not answer, Isabella continued. "I wonder if you even had the courage to return and face him after having lost me."

"If you continue talking I will cut out your tongue." She finally went silent. "I did not return to Constantinople. I found Angloans, willing to follow me and a good sailor whom I paid my final coin to find you. I must say, it was worth every penny to see you bound up and Edward Cullen hanging from a beam in the darkness of this ship." The moment he mentioned Edward's name Isabella's mask slipped—of which Braun took note.

"You really care for him, don't you?" he laughed. "How absurd. But I guess he must seem romantic to you, after having rescued you and all."

"He did little, Braun. I escaped from you myself. I jumped from that roof, I ran through half of the city, only to be spared the sight of you." Another slap across her cheek. This one hurt more and was harder. Blood was drawn and escaped the corner of her mouth.

"He will not look so pleasing when I humiliate him before you," Braun mused, trying to harness his temper.

For the first time, Isabella showed signs of worry. She thought they would most likely be killed. She did not know of which lengths Braun was willing to go to make them suffer. "Humiliate him?"

"I wonder how high and mighty he will be once I stretch him out on deck and unmask him. We are all Angloans here, we have all heard of him—I wonder how many of us will still look at him in wonder once we see him without his sword, his mask and his insufferable pride and arrogance. I know my men will enjoy it, to see him crumble before them." Alas, the words sounded more like Braun was trying to convince himself than her. Her heart sped up at his words.

"You cannot do that!" She knew how proud Edward was, what the humiliation would do to him. She knew he'd rather die a swift death than being tortured by Braun in front of them all. It seemed Braun was aware of it as well.

"Of course I can," he smiled such a wicked smile that Isabella had to look away.

"What will you win by all of this? You still have nothing to go back to, you are still a traitor—"

"Have you not stopped in any port since returning from Constantinople?" Braun asked in awe. "Have you not heard?" He sounded almost triumphant now.

"Heard what?" she asked in a guarded tone.

"You will soon find out," Braun mused, sitting on the desk with crossed arms as he watched her expression. When her face did not change, Braun muttered in frustration. "Did you all really think I was the only one who planned the attack against the palace? Did you think it was our only plan? You are ill-informed. The plot against Jasper has been going on for years, I am merely one of many tied to it."

"Then who?" He remained quiet.

"You will not hear who it is from me. I was only promised lands if I agreed to join the coup: I was promised Cadherra. But then Jasper gave them to that peasant," he growled.

"Cadherra? You want Cadherra?" She was not ignorant of the riches the lands held. It housed several silver and copper mines, as well as rich crops every year. Trade would pass through the north of Raven's Grove, via Sorossa.

"You know, I grow bored of our conversation. What do you say if we prepare the main deck for a little demonstration, a little entertainment? I've been at sea for too long." The knot in her stomach grew and the tears threatened to break through her mask. But Isabella fought against her emotions, not ready to let Braun see her weakness.

* * *

Edward had never thought himself heavy up until that point. His shoulders ached together with his back as they had to carry the burden of his whole body. Hours of hanging suspended started taking their toll.

But when Braun's men came to see if he was awake, he did not welcome them. They were silent, even subdued as they saw him eye them in stoic silence. There were no mocking words or laughs, for they knew what awaited him. They did not envy what he was about to go through. They were Angloan and they all knew of Edward Cullen. Openly none dared to speak against Braun, who seemed to lose his mind more as the days passed. Many had respected Edward, but not enough to save him from what awaited.

Braun had instructed them to beat him with heavy sticks before releasing the shackles that held him suspended. One of them, Benjamin, felt the wood heavy in his hand, gritting his teeth as he stared at the defenseless man hanging from the ceiling. He did not know why exactly Braun wanted to humiliate him—probably personal reasons; all those lords were the same, except Cullen. But Benjamin and his fellow countrymen did nothing, they stayed silent.

One of them rose the stick, ready to crash it against the awaiting body. But a brutish looking man in his late forties held out a hand. "No… let him walk up there with some dignity at least," he whispered to the younger one. Edward, Jacob, and Carlisle now wondered what contraption awaited them that even the enemy did not have the heart to hurt them.

"I suspect Braun has a lot in store for me," Edward said in his usual grave tone. The sound and impact of it sent some of them jumping. They were slightly astonished at the calmness it held. None of them dared to speak, it was bad enough they'd gone against one order of Braun.

"You can still turn around, turn against Braun and come back to Angloa with us!" Carlisle tried. "Whatever Braun paid, we'll pay double."

"We're not here for money," one of them spat.

Edward understood then what they thought Braun could give them. "You are exiles, are you not? Driven from your homeland for some crime you've committed?" he stated.

Benjamin stepped forth, he knew it was never a good idea to speak with a prisoner, to form an attachment. But he wanted Edward to understand why they followed Braun. It would make him feel less guilty, he supposed. "Some here fought with him against you and king Jasper in Wessport, those will always follow Lord Braun. But most of us committed stupid mistakes when we were young or when we were starving. Most of us were brought before an unjust jury that made us choose; the mines for twenty years or exile forever," he almost lamented. "You can imagine what most of us chose."

Twenty years working in a mine was almost a death sentence. Between the foul air, the poor conditions and the hard work, a man would not last even five years. He'd live ten if he was lucky. But many dropped dead from the cough that would eventually settle as the dirty air invaded their lungs. Others suffered accidents in the narrow spaces. Many dropped from fatigue. It was one of the worst sentences people could suffer.

"Some of us were exiled when Magnus was still king—" Benjamin cut his speech short. "It matters little now," he muttered. It was time.

Edward stared into empty space as the shackles were loosened while a pistol was trained right on his head. His hands were quickly rebound with a thick rope in front of him.

Jacob and Carlisle were taken down. "We go as well?" Jacob's voice wavered, afraid to think what might be in store for him. Scenarios started drifting through his nervous mind; where Braun would use a magnitude of torture methods on them. Perhaps he'd tie them to the mast and let the seagulls feast on their flesh. Maybe he'd whip them with the cat-o-nine whip. Or, Jacob feared, had he secured some type of rack where he'd pop their limbs one by one? His hairs rose and a cold sweat started as Jacob grew nauseated. He knew they'd be humiliated first, of that he was sure. For they had stolen Isabella from Braun, she had humiliated him by daring to run away, by leaving him penniless in Constantinople.

"He wants all to see," Benjamin said, almost as if apologizing as he led them to the main deck.

The walk up to the main deck was usually brief, but as the three men got dragged by their hands toward the awaiting crowd, they felt time slow down. Edward was thankful his mask hid the worry ever present on his face. But then the grim realization hit him: Braun would remove the mask. He would consider it the greatest humiliation, to be sure.

And Isabella would be there. She would see his face.

Edward stopped, ignoring as they pulled on his bindings. He could not be—would not be unmasked. Few things scared him in life, but Isabella seeing his face was one of them. He did not wish to see the disappointment and resentment that would stem from it.

"Come on, let's get going!" one man said as he dragged on the restraints, further bruising Edward's wrists.

"I will not," he growled. "I'd rather you kill me here now than go up there." Carlisle heard a hint of fear in his friend's voice.

"Edward, we will be with you," he assured his friend. But he never saw the hopelessness that settled within the masked man. He wondered if either Jacob or Carlisle would say such words after they saw his face.

The rope pulled harder, sending Edward to the floor. His head ached; his senses deprived and his muscles screaming in protest. He had no energy, nothing left to put up a fight. He was as helpless as they came. The psychological effect it had on him, however, was far worse. Something settled in the pit of his stomach. He felt like a small child, about to be paraded in front of the world.

The light of day breached through the door, illuminating the last few steps leading to the main deck. The wind carried with it the metallic scent of the sea mixed with the perfume of saltwater and sun—something he'd welcomed before, but something he wanted to get away from now.

Edward had to squint his eyes as they walked out, stumbling like newborn babes, and working to find their footing. His stomach dropped at the sight before him. The blood from the early morning fight had not been washed away; it bathed the surface of the vessel in a deep red. The metallic scent had not been that of the sea, he understood then, but that of oxidizing blood.

Around thirty men all stood on the main deck, clinging to the sides, leaving the middle empty. They were turned to face the upper deck, where you had to climb stairs to reach it. There, leaning against the wooden railing, was a triumphant Braun. Next to him stood Isabella, her mouth slightly ajar at the sight of Edward.

He was not beaten, but he had seen better days. His white cotton shirt was dirty, bloodied and untucked. His black trousers and boots had cuts and slashes in them. The look of pure rage in his eyes unsettled her. The silent battle between Edward and Braun caused tension in the air.

"Last I spoke directly with you, I had given you a mortal wound," Braun said in a lighthearted tone.

"A knife in the shoulder is not life-threatening—unless you poisoned that dagger," Edward drawled in an arrogant tone. His voice concealed his current state of mind. Jacob and Carlisle's heads snapped up at this—Edward must've taken to heart their conversation sailing to Rome all those weeks ago.

Braun smirked as he gently caressed Isabella's cheek, red from where his hand had struck her. The motion caused Edward to fight against his restraint—Braun chuckling all the while. "It matters little now, does it not?" He seemed almost melancholic; the chase was over, his foe stood defeated before him and what had been driving him to continue forth for so long was about to be extinguished. "Release his bonds," Braun ordered the men. "And tie the others by the stairs—I want them to see as well."

Benjamin and the others looked at Braun in confusion. "My lord?" one of them said in a questioning tone.

"Do as I say." Isabella's lip quivered as Edward's bonds were released—she had no idea what Braun was planning. Her hands were loosened as well, but the knife in Braun's hand was always there, as a reminder what would happen if she ran—not that she had anywhere to run.

"Come, my dear," he snapped at her, grabbing her by the wrist and walking her down the stairs. They descended then, Braun looking smug as a defenseless Edward stood before him. "The mighty Edward Cullen-stripped down to what he truly is."

He played with the knife in his hand. "You thought to be above your station, you thought you could mingle with us? Take lands from us?" Edward tried to ignore his words and instead focused on Isabella. He could not tell her that all would be okay, he could not tell her that they would survive this—maybe she might. But he would most likely not be as lucky. It seemed a cruel trick had been played on them; to think they had survived so many perils during these months to almost reach the finish line and lose. Her chocolate eyes met his and so many emotions coursed through them.

Braun stopped taunting Edward, noticing the loving gazes between them. He could only chuckle. "She holds you in great esteem, it seems," he mocked. "I wonder if it would remain that way if she saw your face." When no answer came from any of them Braun could only give out a loud laugh. "So you would bed her but not take off that mask. Understandable, I suppose. A smart move." Some of his men laughed with him, but most remained serious. Their eyes drifted to the floor of the ship, many almost ashamed to be there, but none lifting a finger to help. They wanted to return to Angloa—go back to their families.

Suddenly, Braun grabbed Isabella and pressed the knife against her throat. "Let us see what is most important: your care for this woman or your pride. Take off that mask by your own accord or I slit her throat," he snarled, eager to see what Edward would do.

Edward took a step forward, lifting a hand to calm Braun down. "Don't hurt her!"

"Then do as I say, take that mask off." Isabella shook her head, mouthing to him to get away. She wished to speak to him, to tell him how much she wanted to be with him. They had not gone through all these hardships just so that he could be beaten down in front of her—humiliated. She knew how secretive he was when it came to his face, how important it was for him to keep it hidden. It was the source of his worries, she guessed. Much like many hid their pasts, Edward hid his face; because it probably bore the marks of a dark past.

Jacob and Carlisle struggled against their bonds, but it was in vain. Carlisle managed to catch Edward's attention, telling him there was no use.

"I will do what you ask." His voice was clear—strong even. All present could not drag their eyes away even if their life depended on it now. Benjamin felt his eyes glued to the masked man as two gloved hands traveled up to the base of his neck, to the threads tied together in a knot—a knot that enclosed a part of him.

Those hands slowly started unraveling the cords and each breath was strained. His senses could only grow heightened, his heart could only speed up. Isabella watched in silent horror as the man before them struggled against his very being doing something against his nature. She shivered, she was scared. Isabella and the rest of them would soon bear witness to an unmasked Edward Cullen.

Each lace coming lose was like a shackle being ripped away, the fresh air of the sea worked its way under the leather, the warmth of the sun started touching his exposed skin. He was determined not to let his vulnerability show through. The more he dragged at the laces, the more confident he grew. Edward rose his head to look Braun straight in the eyes. The mask was loose enough to rip away now, only clinging to the top of his head because he willed it.

The deep green eyes stared straight ahead, shifting their gaze from Braun to Isabella. He had never seen her more tormented than now. The public drew a collective breath as the reality of his unmasking descended upon them. Jacob licked his lips in silent anticipation, hating that his curiosity had grown excruciatingly painful.

He drew a final breath of air, knowing nothing would be the same after his leather prison came off. The right hand grabbed the mask and pulled—the action felt slow and sluggish, but in reality, it was done in a swift, elegant movement.

What he had worn on his face came to rest in his gloved hand, by his side as Edward Cullen stared—barefaced, at the people in front of him. Silence had never been so loud and present before. Braun dropped the knife, the thud ripping through the air like a giant scream.

* * *

 _May 1st, 1493 – Sorossa_

Leonore had never expected the pain, but it hit her like a massive brick house when she went into labor. The cramps, coming and going in waves, were so excruciating that she found no words to describe them.

Lord Athar had been staying in the cabin with them for the past two weeks, eager to see the child born. When it was time, she had urged the midwife to keep him out of the room.

Left were she, Claudine and the midwife. The old woman was a confidant of Athar's and Leonore suspected she knew the former queen's true identity.

Hot water and plenty of rags had been brought in as the woman aided her as best as she could. Leonore would scream in pain, the whole day passing by, one hour growing slower than the next. She experienced a feverish warmth as she struggled to keep herself together. The windows of the little cabin were opened to let the May air filter in, washing over her.

Athar paced the floor, just outside the door, almost as if he were the father. Whenever Leonore screamed out in pain or swore in French, he would jump where he stood, his heart beating madly. He was afraid something would go amiss, he was afraid she would not make it. The midwife who had been brought in knew who she was tending to, but she did not know who the child's father was. But the woman was no fool. She kept her tongue, although she could do little to compose herself; she was about to witness the birth of a prince or princess.

Claudine eyed her friend, growing worried as the sun started setting and still no sign of the child's head could be seen.

When night fell, the pains no longer came in waves, they were constant.

"My lady," came the soft voice of the old woman. "You need to push now, we cannot wait any longer. The child must come out," she said, staring between Leonore's legs—she was dilated enough.

Leonore cried out in pain, but gathered enough breath, struggling to remain conscious. The large bed that had been prepared for her felt bulky and uncomfortable. The once queen of Angloa bit her teeth together and pushed with all her might. The midwife looked, but still, there was no sign of a head.

"Again!" she said. "You must push again." Leonore pushed, a piercing cry escaping her. Athar made the sign of the cross behind the door as he felt about ready to have a heart attack from his nervous state. Leonore held Claudine's hand with such a grip that her confidant was sure some bone must've broken. But she remained silent, her pain was nothing compared to Leonore's.

The fourth time Leonore pushed, the midwife gave a shout of joy. "I see a head! Now push again!" Leonore felt her head fall against the cushioning pillows. Her mouth turned to Claudine and, in a daze, she whispered something to her friend, her tears streaming down her face. The Frenchwoman merely nodded, squeezing Leonore's hand as she did so.

Leonore continued pushing as night settled. The darkness outside of the window pressed against her and the candles seemed dim. Tears streamed down her face from the effort. Another push seemed to do it for she felt a release and the midwife exclaiming triumphantly.

But the queen's worries were not over yet. Her head lifted from the pillow, trying to see. The child was silent but soon started protesting faintly at having been brought into the cold and heartless world. The midwife told Claudine to take care of Leonore as she washed the child.

"What is it?" Leonore exclaimed, half-crazed. Her heart could not have been beating more loudly.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the pain of having just given birth. The woman wrapped the baby in blankets—washed clean just minutes before.

"What _is_ it?!" Leonore growled; Claudine stood by her lady as the woman stared down at the small infant.

Her mouth was open and her eyes wide, she looked up as if having seen an apparition. The tension was unbearable while they waited for the answer.

Athar knocked on the door, wanting to get in.

The wind rattled the windows.

The moon shone its silver beams, illuminating the tense space.

The seconds seemed endless, the whole room held its breath as the midwife stared at the two women and then again at the babe, softly crying in her arms.

She trembled, realizing just what she carried against her bosom.

"It... is a boy," she quivered.

* * *

 **A/N: Please review this chapter if you liked it. This was probably one of my most favorite chapters I've written (in the series) to date! (For obvious reasons, lol). But I think the next one tops this one when it comes to fav chapters (you will soon see why). I just had such a fun time writing this, so I hope you guys had fun reading it as well!**

 **Cheers!**

 **Isabelle**


	16. Chapter 16

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 16_

 _May 1st, 1493 – Sorossa_

Silver moonbeams clashed with the golden light of wax candles. Soft limbs grew to stone, Leonore could not move while her eyes widened. The only noise in that room were the soft cries of her son.

Her son.

The once queen shifted her terrified gaze to Claudine in a hopeless plea.

A shaky intake of breath revealed that she was still alive—for the woman looked like a statue.

"Give me my son, let me hold him," her voice trembled as she whispered. The old woman looked down at the infant, realizing what she held in her arms. She did not wish to drop something so precious.

"Lord Athar will be most pleased," the midwife said smiling. Alas, she trembled as well, for she knew what this infant would bode; war and misery. But it would be a world rid of Magnus Fell and his iron grip on Angloa.

The look she got from the queen dismayed her.

When the child was claimed by his mother and held against her bosom, he calmed down a little, nuzzling up against her warmth, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. He was so frail and small—Leonore was most careful not to hurt him as she whispered loving words into his ear.

Claudine stood by the door, listening to Athar. He seemed not to have heard the soft cries of the baby yet. The midwife cleaned her hands, a look of satisfaction on her face. She had been the one to bring the queen's son—the prince, to the world. After drying off the blood from her hands, she ventured to the door, only to be stopped by the lady of the queen.

Claudine's brown doe-eyes turned into slits. "Lord Athar must not know of this," said the Frenchwoman with such venom and premonition in her voice as to cause a shiver in the old woman. She looked over the shoulder of the midwife at the mother and child. No, Claudine could not let Athar claim that child—even if he meant well.

"But of course he must. The world needs to know of this child."

Claudine and Leonore's eyes met for a brief second. Both women had made a pact—a deal. The confidant was loyal and trustworthy, to a fault. Claudine hoped God would forgive her for what she was about to do.

One of her hands came against the midwife's mouth while the other pushed her to the bed. Leonore handed her a pillow while Claudine straddled the poor woman, pushing the cushion and fabric against her face. The midwife kicked and fought but to no avail. Her pathetic cries were muffled against the fabric and soon, her resistance died down until she went completely still.

Claudine was breathing heavily, refusing to remove the pillow, afraid of herself. She had just killed a person. But when her eyes caught sight of the baby, her inner turmoil lessened.

"The Smith's house is close. You know what to do," Leonore whispered—afraid her voice would fail her otherwise. With utmost reluctance, she handed her son to the woman.

Claudine stared with grim eyes at the little boy. Without a word she tied a cloth around her frame to secure the infant and escaped out through the window, never looking back as she ran through the cold moors with neigh but the moon illuminating the path.

The child cried—the sound an eerie echo across the landscape. While her confidant rushed away, Leonore sat up, gritting her teeth against the pain. She lamented the death of the midwife but had no other choice—not if the woman was going to inform Lord Athar. She removed the pillow, alarmed when the dull eyes of the dead woman stared right at her.

Leonore had never seen a corpse before. The woman was still warm and the expression on her face was that of shock and surprise.

With great pain and effort, Leonore dragged the body to a chair, propping the midwife there. When she was done, the corpse looked more like a fatigued old woman, resting after hard work. Leonore held her stomach and bit her teeth together. She could not allow her tears to fall, there was no time nor strength left in her to do so.

The following minutes which passed were agony to her. Athar would knock on the door, asking if all was alright. He did not hear her cries anymore, thinking the worst. But Leonore set to mimic her cries of labor once more, hoping to buy time.

Claudine was soon back, jumping in through the window, an infant still tied against her bosom. Her eyes cast a glance to the midwife, an involuntary shiver shaking her body. She unwrapped the cloth and placed the babe in Leonore's arms.

"The switch was successful. They are asleep and did not notice me."

Leonore looked at the sleeping child. She wondered if Athar could tell that it was almost a month old. She hoped not.

"Open the door," Leonore commanded, stirring the child so that it would wake and cry.

Athar was quick to enter, looking at the infant, at the future of Angloa. He was at a loss for words, feeling his heart beat madly in his chest, the blood rising to his head and his mouth going dry.

"May I?" The old man did not even look at the midwife. He only had eyes for the screaming baby. Leonore handed the infant to him in such a reluctant manner that he felt as if he were stealing it from her. "He is the future solution to our problems. With him, we can remove Magnus from the throne—"

"It is a girl," Claudine answered curtly.

Athar felt hope weaken in his chest until it was extinguished like a flame. The crying infant in his arms dulled his senses. "A girl?" he whispered in disbelief. "N-no, it cannot be!" Athar said, his face turning pale. He cast a glance at Leonore, looking exhausted from her ordeal.

"See for yourself," the former queen dared him. Athar removed the wrappings and was further dismayed by what he saw. It was a girl. "My daughter will have no part of your ploy against Magnus. My family would never back her—not a girl," she remarked dryly. "There will be few standing beside her; the daughter of a foreigner."

Athar had nothing to say. The kindled hope was washed away. He had entertained thoughts that even a girl could rally an army. But now… faced with that reality, Athar could not see such a plan happening.

He handed the screaming child back to her mother and cast a glance at the midwife. "I will, of course, take care of you. The child should nonetheless still remain in Angloa. If you are seen traveling with an infant, you will have people come after you, even in France. They have yet to know of this girl's existence. Let's keep it that way for a few years," he said. Athar's voice was laced with a tiredness she had only heard in Philip. Leonore almost got worried as a look of guilt touched her features. She did not really wish to trick him, but his friendship with Philip, and what Philip had been, clouded his mind. If Thomas Athar ever found out that Leonore had given birth to a son, that child would never be safe.

When the old man had left them, she handed the screaming girl to Claudine. "Return her before the parents find out and give me my own child."

It was soon that the Frenchwoman held her own infant in her arms, listening to his tiny heartbeat, engulfing his small hand in her own. "I will never let them get you, never," she said, not being able to hold back the silent tears anymore.

* * *

 _April 16th, 1520_

Isabella thought the eyes would seem duller without the mask, but it was not the case. In fact, those expressive orbs only grew more vivacious without the constricting leather. For now, the full light of the sun cast brilliant rays upon them.

She had never held any girlish or foolish hopes that he would be handsome under there. Isabella had always thought he would bear a twisted disfigurement. She had seen the thin white scars on his chest, trailing up to his face. So the young woman entertained the thought that he was grossly disfigured under his mask.

Perhaps that was why his face was such a surprise to her.

A thick head of bronze hair swayed in the wind—the strands finally free from their prison. They framed his face. A strong and defined jaw was dusted with a short beard dusting his chin, making him look rough and roguish. His nose, although that much of it was outlined through the mask, was proud and straight, matching the symmetrical face. His eyebrows were expressive and Isabella pondered how he could have delivered any kind of emotion without them. The thick, black eyelashes framing those orbs were more prominent now, not shadowed by the black leather.

The face took her breath away, for it was not at all what she had foreseen. But then, around his neck, she saw indeed scars, as if someone had tried to slice his throat at one point in his life.

She felt almost tricked and fooled then. How could he have gone around hiding such a perfect face? But then Isabella started noticing how something was wrong, very wrong.

His face was not scarred, but as she perceived the features another face came to mind. Braun had tensed up behind her to such a state that she thought him frozen in ice. He had seen it before her, the uncanny resemblance that unsettled them so.

The color of the hair was a shade lighter, the color of the eyes was different, his face was more defined, and his eyebrows more expressive. But, to all senses and purposes, it was the living image of the late king, Philip Fell.

Most of the Angloans present stumbled back, some making the sign of the cross, afraid they'd seen a ghost. The resemblance Edward bore to the late king was so close that he almost looked like him.

Jacob had never stared so hard at anyone in his life. His mouth was open, his eyes wide and his body shaking. Carlisle had fallen to his knees, his brow furrowed as he cast Edward a helpless glance.

But it was Isabella's reaction he wanted to know. She had not yet managed to process what she had seen. It took her a while, to see him without the mask. She could not place that face with her Edward.

Braun's hand fell to his side as he let her go. Isabella quickly stepped away when given the chance. While Braun seemed stuck in his own contemplation, Edward moved to speak with her. His head turned in her direction. She jumped, an involuntary action that drew the mesmerizing eyes back to her. His deep, rich voice came from that face which was so alien to her, the same intonation, the same tone—it was Edward who spoke. "Isabella."

He walked toward Isabella but when she backed away from him, he stopped.

"Don't come any closer." The young woman had been through a lot these last few months, and she thought she had overcome it all. But the sight of Edward's face confused and unsettled her in such a manner that she did not know what to do with herself.

Some of the Angloans had jumped ship, running to get away from what they believed to be Philip Fell's vengeful ghost, returned to smite them all. It was a reaction Edward was used to.

"Isabella, it's me. Please," he begged in muted tones as he slowly walked toward her. She took a deep breath, her trembling never ceasing. She could not explain what she saw. A part of her wondered if a portrait of Philip had come alive. Another felt extremely hurt. He had never lied to her. But making her believe he hid a hideous face under that mask and having her scared senseless vexed her. Another part could not stop staring.

"How can this be you?" she said with such confusion and fear in her voice that his worst fears started dawning on him. Isabella would not accept him, not now that she started realizing who he was.

"It _is_ me." His voice seemed to calm her. Her eyes met his own and a look of recognition lit in them.

"It is you," she repeated, closing her eyes. Isabella tried to tell herself that it was Edward still speaking to her. Whatever fear, confusion or anger she held could wait. She needed to trust in him.

Isabella stood there, her eyes closed, trying to cancel out everything but his voice. He spoke to her in hushed tones, saying that it was him and she believed him. She recognized Edward and overlooked the visage under the mask. She pictured him, but with his mask. Isabella had only known him with the leather hood and thus tied it to him.

Two strong arms came to embrace her as his mouth came to kiss her forehead. She recognized those lips, that embrace, that scent. "It is you," she said to herself.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear. She had never before heard such fear in his voice. "I… there is a reason I didn't want to tell you—"

"This is all a farce!" Braun had turned. In the commotion of his unmasking, they had forgotten about him. Edward turned around, shielding Isabella with himself. Braun had regained his wits and stood, pointing at Edward with his dagger, gritting his teeth. He would not accept what he had witnessed.

"Your eyes do not deceive you, Braun." Edward looked at the Angloans left onboard, scarcely ten men. Benjamin was amongst them, looking at the Count in silent disbelief. "All of you can come back to Angloa and be forgiven for your crimes," he turned to Braun. "Except you." Edward pointed a finger at the traitor. "I swore to Theodor Glovendale that if I found you, I would deliver you to him. But this is one promise I shall break."

Braun drew his dagger, pointing it at Edward's chest. "I do not care who you look like, you are nothing. Nothing!"

A moment of silence followed. The air was ripe with tension, the two men faced off in a silent battle.

"And you would kill an unarmed man?" The expressive eyebrows knitted together as he bared his teeth in a silent growl. Braun could not overlook the face, he could not concentrate.

"Put it back on!" Braun said, pointing at the mask. "And I shall fight you."

"Why? Does my face unsettle you?" Edward teased, his smirk gracing his face, followed by an arched eyebrow. He pushed Isabella back softly, to get her out of the way. As Edward kept Braun busy, she silently slipped over to Jacob and Carlisle, quickly untying their hands.

"Three against ten," Jacob breathed. "I do not like the odds." He had to think past what he had just witnessed. Getting out of there alive was far more important than what hid underneath the mask. Carlisle was thinking in the same terms.

"There are five more men under deck. I will free them, you keep out of sight until we come back." He looked to Isabella and Jacob, before sneaking away.

A million thoughts passed through Carlisle's mind. Edward better have a damned good explanation for them when this was over. It was less than they deserved.

"I like the sun on my face, as I like that stupid look on yours. I will not put it back on," Edward said as he tossed the black piece of leather aside. He then widened his arms, as if daring Braun to strike.

Braun gave out a howl in frustration, aiming to strike at Edward with his dagger glinting dangerously. The other reacted and stepped aside, narrowly missing the steel as it swished past him. Edward growled while Braun hissed, jumping at him again. He was hunched over, aiming for one of his legs. But once more the other jumped aside, managing to land a blow on his lower back. Braun cried out in pain as a nerve was hit. He dropped the knife mid-fall, scraping his hands and knees while he did so. A few splinters entered his tender flesh. Isabella saw it as divine justice when Braun exclaimed in agony over the thick wooden splinters soiling his hands.

The knife was tossed to one side and they all could only watch as both men tumbled into a full-on fist fight. It was anything but graceful as both landed punch after punch. Edward bore the fists directed to his body as best as he could. He only grunted when the impact hit him, blocking most of the blows. Braun was not as quick, nor agile. He was a swordsman, not well-equipped to fight a hand-to-hand combat. Edward directed a sweeping kick, knocking Braun over in a graceful move.

Some of Braun's men finally reacted as they saw their lord bloody and beaten on the floor. He had promised them a good life back in their motherland, with both riches and power. They had all to lose if Edward took him down.

Three men rushed toward the standing man, screaming as they did so. Edward met them head-on, landing quick and precise blows wherever he could. But three against one was more difficult without a weapon.

Benjamin looked at the scene in disbelief. He knew not who to help; the lord who had delivered enchanting promises yet was a known traitor? Or the man who bore the face of a king, and known for his victories in battle? It was easy for Benjamin to decide. He joined Edward in a heartbeat, as did some of his friends.

The fistfight waged for a while until Carlisle returned with the Italians, who all bore weapons. Some men had been beaten to a deadly pulp and had little life left in them.

Braun, realizing he was losing, had tried to get away, dragging himself to the hull of the ship, hoping he could jump it in the confusion of the fight.

He did not get far.

"You are going nowhere," Isabella growled in his ear as she pushed the damask blade against his throat.

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, he spat a big blob of it on deck. "Foolish girl," he snarled. "You think you scare me with that sorry blade? When I return to Angloa I will see to it that you and that bastard suffer the most!"

"You have no more power in Angloa. You sorry attempts to lie have tired me!" she exclaimed with fatigue lacing her voice. "You tortured me for weeks, making me believe Edward was dead! Did you believe I would ever submit to you if you told me that?" Her voice wavered with the emotion that weighed the words. "Each night I would imagine what it would feel like slicing this knife across our flesh, making you suffer for your crimes."

"I never once touched you, I kept your honor intact!" Braun and Isabella forgot about the onlookers, completely ruled by their own conversation.

"You know how I suffered on that ship!" she hissed in his ear, low enough for Edward not to hear. "And what of the maids in my household? What of Mrs. Rochester?" The knife sank deeper into his flesh as her mouth trembled at the memory of the screams and blood.

Braun had nothing to say in his defense. "I finally realized that you are a soulless man, driven only by earthly possessions, by greed and lust and power. You used me like a chess piece, just as you surely did with countless others in Wessport. I would not be surprised if it was you who killed Linahan in cold blood!" she uttered, losing grip of herself. One wrong move and she would do something she might regret for the rest of her life.

"You are as naïve as they come! I did what I had to survive," he sneered. "Both in Constantinople and in Wessport."

"No one held a knife to your throat in Wessport. Your actions in Angloa were of your own making—as was your demise," Edward threatened, slowly nearing them as he caught wind of what was going on. "Isabella is right—your greed is what brought you here. As is your unwavering pride and hatred toward me. That is why you followed us, isn't it? Because you just couldn't let me take her like that," Edward spat in a monotonous tone.

He was close enough now. Close enough to see the fear and hatred displayed in Isabella's eyes as she looked at Braun. The damask steel was still against his throat.

"Let him go, Isabella," Edward said in a velvety voice, trying to break through to her. "Do not do something you will regret." He understood her. Edward himself wanted to slice the knife across Braun's throat. But he had killed before. Isabella had not. He was afraid what such an action might do to her.

Their eyes connected and she seemed an animal caught in a trap. Somewhere deep within her mind, Melike's words sounded " _trust in no one_." She thought she knew Edward, and now there was an entire layer of him that had just been revealed to her. Why did she have to do as he ordered? One flick of her knife would end the worm that wriggled within her grip. She felt powerful as Braun's heartbeat grew more erratic. She had power over him—it was Braun's turn to fear for his life.

She gripped the knife tighter, pushing it against the throat even more and blocked out the surrounding world. All she wanted was to see the ruby droplets spill from his throat like wine spilled from a cup. All she wanted to do was to hear him suffocate as his life drained from him—smell the metallic tang in the air as Oscar Braun died by her own doing.

Edward saw her eyes darken, saw her demeanor change. He put aside his weapon and got down on one knee, to come on eye level with her.

"Isabella, look at me." It was only them now. No Braun, no onlookers. Just the empty world and them, under a burning sun that stared down, deciding whom it should judge.

"Remember what you asked me once in Wessport?" he smiled weakly, showing off his white teeth. It lit up his face—for the expression was as genuine as she had ever seen. Her grip on Braun lessened, but her grip on the knife did not.

"No."

"You asked me once if I would ever trust you," he whispered. "The night you came to Savoie's estate in all your pride. The night you went to Jasper himself to ask for your father's forgiveness."

She recalled that night, of how he had interceded on her behalf. Slowly, Isabella recalled all the times Edward had helped her—whether she'd known it then or not. It was more than she was comfortable accepting. She had trusted him then—a man who wore a mask. She had placed her faith in him, and he had never disappointed her.

"I trust you," he said as her eyes lightened. "I trust that you will know what is right, Isabella. The final decision is yours." Her hands trembled as he spoke those words. Her eyes watered as the sincere gaze in his eyes met her chocolate orbs. The world seemed to stop for them as she made her decision.

With one shaky breath, Isabella pushed Braun away from her, stumbling back against the railing. Braun drew a breath he did not know he'd been holding as the knife was released from his throat.

Edward was the embodiment of relief. He did not wish for Isabella to commit such an act. She looked at Zoráida's knife and then at Edward.

They were about to embrace. But such an act seemed short-lived. For—just as time started moving, it all happened in the blink of an eye.

Edward was taken off guard as Braun fished a hidden dagger from his boot, turning to strike. He was close enough to deliver a deathly blow.

Isabella fought against the weakness in her knees, against the bile rising in her throat as she saw what was about to happen. Her eyes turned black once more as primitive instincts resurfaced.

Braun was towering over Edward—a murderous look in his eyes as he made a move to plunge the dagger into the other's heart.

But a hand caught his doublet, catching him off balance and bringing him back. The brown eyes of Isabella Swan stared right back at his own. Deep and rich brown, melting in her fiery orbs would be the last thing he truly saw before Isabella drew the Damascus blade. Before Edward could reach her, she had already sunken the dagger into Braun's chest. The pained expression on his face provoked such a satisfaction inside her that she let out a cry. Her suffering had accumulated to this moment and seeing Braun with a knife in his chest—the source of her sorrows—could not have been more beautiful.

He stumbled back, clutching at his wound, his breath ragged as he sank to his knees. Isabella never once removed her eyes from him, but watched in silent anticipation, waiting for him to draw his last breath. "I wish Lord Linahan would be alive to see this," she whispered in an icy tone. His blood pooled, mixing with the blood from the previous night, staining the hem of her white gown and slippers.

She stepped back. The satisfaction had been momentary. Soon another feeling took over; an emptiness that frightened her. It was cold and hollow and made her nauseated. Isabella realized what she had done and threw up, but she never once broke out in sobs.

She did not regret her decision.

Edward rushed past her to Braun. Her elevated senses made her perceive the world move slower.

He stared at the struggling man for a moment before yanking the blade out. "I will give you a swift death—which is more than you deserve," Edward whispered in his ear before standing behind him, taking his head by the hair and dragging the glinting knife across his throat. The blood splattered across Isabella's front, the scarlet droplets making a bizarre painting on her gown and staining her face.

His choking struggles broke through the crashing waves on the rocks and the shouting seagulls. Braun was dead—his eyes opened wide in terror, and the iris dilated as life left his body.

Edward beheld the chaotic scene before him, realizing the mess he now had on his hands. He went to Isabella and placed a careful arm around her.

"Why did you kill him so quickly? He should have suffered more," she spat, hatred seeping into her eyes.

All men around them stood immobile. When Lorenzo caught sight of Edward's unmasked face he proceeded to scratch his head but referred from saying anything. The scent of blood increased, mixed with the desperate wails of birds.

"Come with me," he said, guiding her to the Captain's Cabin. "Let's wash you up."

Edward walked to Carlisle and Jacob. "I… know you want answers," he started in a heavy voice. They could still not process the scene that had unfolded before them. "I owe that much to you. But I need to ask you to direct these men—who are as lost, if not more, than you," he said. Despite having lost his mask, Edward was not above giving out orders. It came naturally to him, as it always had.

He received no answer, only a stiff nod from Carlisle and a stare from Jacob as he guided Isabella under deck.

Getting there was a blur to her, she shook with hatred and anger from the ordeal. But as soon as they reached the bed and she sat down did she see the blood on her hands.

Isabella could barely hear Edward rummaging in the background as all she saw was the drying blood—Braun's blood. Her lip quivered as she was on the brink of laughing and crying at the same time.

But, then, another pair of hands came to enclose hers. They were surprisingly soft and warm. For the first time, Isabella realized Edward had removed his gloves. A thin, white scar trailed along the back of his left hand in a swirling pattern.

The sound of pooling water danced around them as a clean rag dipped into a metal bowl. He meticulously started cleaning the blood away, ever so often dipping the rag in the water, staining it red. Each brush against her skin felt like hot fire. The blood mixed with his hands and tainted his skin as well.

Isabella abruptly pulled her hands away from his, holding them close to herself. She did not wish to look up and see that handsome face of his.

"I am sorry." The words were sincere, sounded guilty. Isabella still kept her eyes on her bloodied slippers. "For everything," he murmured. The quietness of the otherwise low and powerful voice seemed to calm her.

"I did not wish to dirty your hands," she whispered after a while. Isabella feared her voice would break if she spoke up higher. A ragged intake of air was all she got in response. She did not see the guilt and sorrow on his features, nor the worry they held for her.

A gentle hand came to brush a strand of her hair away from her face, resting momentarily on her chin. Isabella crumbled under his touch, allowing herself to do so finally.

She had not broken when he had come for her, nor had she despaired when under Braun's iron grip. But now, she felt herself drift back to that innocent girl she had once been. Isabella did not lament Braun's death, or that she had been the cause of it. She lamented that Edward had to see that side of her.

The added weight on the bed indicated that Edward had sat down next to her. He caressed her head as she rested it against his chest. His arm encircled her and they sat there for a while, taking comfort in each other's presence.

"I don't care if you dirty my hands… I would jump into a pit of mud for you," he whispered in her hair, the grip around her tightening.

Isabella turned to look at him for the first time. A few tears had spilled, but she managed to control them. She took in every contour of his features, still trying to process what she saw. Her hand came up to his face, trailing along it as if trying to understand it.

He caught her hand as a few fingers came to caress his lips. She did not know the sensations her caresses provoked in him, and now was not the time for him to reveal such thoughts.

She broke her silence after a while. Isabella had questions—too many to count. But instead of blurting them out, Edward asked what she wanted to know first. Whatever she asked, he would reveal to her.

Strangely enough, she did not directly blurt out questions about him or his face. Instead, she drifted to when they had been in Wessport—his relationship with Braun. Isabella understood there was more to Edward and Braun's relationship than he let on. She wanted to understand what had happened behind closed doors and how he had played a part in it.

They slowly started speaking, Edward telling her everything as he turned transparent with her. With every word, with every sentence, he retold of what he had found in Wessport, of what he had discovered there. He spoke of how he had been spied on by Alan Moore, how he had trailed the spy back to Wessport and to Athar, surprisingly enough. He retold of how he had even been in contact with Emmett Saxton in Raven's Grove—albeit, not by his own choosing. The more he revealed, the more Isabella seemed to relax.

"You went through all of this alone?" She felt stupid over having been so preoccupied with her own qualms. "Why did you never tell me of the problems we were in?"

"You had your own worries."

"Braun did a lot of damage, it seems. Men like him made Angloa a worse place," she whispered. "His Majesty must not have known of all this."

"I've told you everything, Isabella. It is a lot to process. I suggest you rest now and we talk more this evening," he said, reluctant to let her go.

"You haven't told me everything," she said, looking at his face with a stern expression. "I didn't ask about the most important part. Yourself." The fact was that she feared what he might tell her.

He felt those judging eyes on him and a cold chill ran down his spine. How much was she judging and despising him now? Would she accept his secret? If it even was a secret to her anymore.

"Tonight I will tell you, Jacob and Carlisle everything," he said with defeat in his voice. Despite herself, Isabella felt guilty for having provoked such a look on his face. It seemed he was so expressive now without the mask that she could not get used to the visible emotions.

She was about to protest that she was not tired. But it seemed a part of her suddenly gave way to extreme fatigue as if everything revealed had charged her mind and senses. Edward must've sent her to sleep out of his own experience. Maybe he wanted her to process everything she'd heard thus far.

Her head hit the pillow and the young woman gripped the linen, her lip quivering as her mind drifted back to all that had just happened. So much information had wandered into her mind that she had forgotten of how her knife had plunged into Braun—the sickening sound of metal piercing flesh.

Isabella had never killed before. The young woman did not expect the action would rattle her bones so. Melike had told her revenge was a slippery slope, and it seemed to be true for as she settled into a sleep full of nightmares, her mind wandered to Wessport. She thought of Cardinal Thorpe and his possible involvement. The true cause of her troubles, it seemed.

* * *

Her eyes opened in a flutter. The sky outside of the windows was dark, only a crescent moon and some stars lightened it up.

She had not slept well, but at least she had rested for a bit. Isabella pushed past the recent memories as recent events flooded her mind. She ignored them, the worst shock over. There was something else that needed answers, something just as important.

She stared at herself. The dress was still tainted with blood, but it seemed Edward had wiped away the worst of it from her hands and arms as she slept. A new and clean gown in ivory lay on a chair next to her. The cabin was empty and so she changed clothes.

Isabella looked at the dirty gown in her hands. She gripped it hard and walked over to the windows. She opened it and cast the gown out, watching as the light fabric got carried by the wind, slowly gliding toward the black waters until being devoured by the sea. It was one item she would not have to gaze upon again—now buried somewhere in the depths of the Mediterranean.

Her eye caught a small note in the dull light of a faint candle. The only sound was the rocking of the ship and the creaking wood as it swayed forth.

 _Come to the dining room when you wake up._

 _E.C_

The dining room was wall to wall with the Captain's Cabin. She knew what awaited there and Isabella did not know if she wished to go. The young woman feared what she might hear.

She had told Edward that she would accept the face underneath that mask, regardless of how it looked. She aimed to keep that promise.

But she had never expected such a face to be hidden.

She had seen the resemblance—as had the others and she feared who he really might be. The fact that she had seen his face would not change who he was to her. But understanding where he came from might, in some sense, alter her perception of him.

Her feet grew heavy and slow as she made way to the door leading to the dining room. The iron handle struggled against her as she made an effort to turn it.

There, inside the dining room, sat Edward at the head of the table, still unmasked. Jacob and Carlisle sat far away from him on either side. And, in the middle of the mahogany table, she saw the leather mask, staring eerily at her as she closed the door behind her.

The swaying candlelight cast strange shadows as the dull light illuminated the room. She walked and hesitantly sat down close to Edward. Isabella had no idea how long they had been waiting for her, but she sensed a loaded tension in the air that made her grow nervous.

"She is here now, you can begin," Carlisle snapped in an erratic manner. To say he was angry was an understatement. Carlisle looked at Edward and felt betrayed, and ridiculed.

Jacob could only nod, not sure how to react yet. He suspected who Edward might be, but did not want to make any assumptions.

"I take it you understand why I had to keep my face hidden," Edward began, pointing out the obvious.

Carlisle's jaw had grown tense as he slammed his fist down on the table, unable to poise himself. "We damn well know! The bastard son of Philip Fell!" he exclaimed with anger. "Are you also in this game for the crown? Did you come to Angloa only to see Jasper removed from the throne too? Maybe you were in league with Lord Brau—"

"Enough!" Isabella shouted as Edward made no move to defend himself. "At least let him explain himself. Don't make any assumptions based on first impressions," she said, speaking out of experience. It was what she had done herself when she first met Edward—she had feared him and detested him because she thought him strange and frightening. Isabella was sure Carlisle had thought similar things until he'd gotten to know the man behind the mask.

Carlisle kept his tongue but was not pleased about it. A loud sigh escaped Edward through his nose as the tension did not subside from his face. He looked at the mask and felt strange relief that all cards were finally on the table.

"Even though I've lived by Edward Cullen for a long time, I was baptized as William Philip Fell," he began. "My father never knew of my existence, he died before I was born," he said with a strange detachment.

The room turned oddly quiet as the others settled down to hear his story. "Philip… my father had lost his first wife to Princess Rosalie's childbirth. He was old then, thinking he could not remarry. Magnus and his wife, Rebecca, had many that would support them for the crown. My father, as I understand it, was against this. He did not wish Rebecca and her family to lay their hands on the power and wealth that the crown offered. You already know how Magnus' rule turned out to be. So a few years after Marianne Urdun's death, it was Lord Athar who proposed that the king should remarry in an attempt to bring a final child into the world, a final heir to his bloodline."

"Everyone knows Philip never managed to impregnate the queen," Jacob began, quickly stopping himself as he saw the look on Edward's exposed face.

"He married Leonore of Valois. Her family was in relation with the king of France at the time, Louis XII. She was the youngest daughter of the lot and agreed to marry my father. They had a fruitless marriage at first as my father never forgot Marianne. Rebecca and Magnus had such force and backing from powerful men at court that it started getting dangerous just being there, especially for Leonore. She did not confide in anyone, for she did not trust anyone. She only had her handmaiden, Claudine Guichard. Yet, it was not enough. But it seemed my father found his strength and finally bedded Leonore." He had their unyielding attention now.

"Leonore kept her pregnancy a secret, for fear of what might happen to the child if it was ever discovered. She feared what Magnus and Rebecca might do to it. Lord Athar managed to whisk her away to his estate in Cantabria the same night my father passed away. It was a few months later that he discovered her state. She had managed to keep it a secret for a long time, suffering in silence," he trailed off as if telling that part of the story brought pain to him.

"When Athar discovered that Leonore carried Philip's child, he saw an opportunity to take down Magnus. The first months of Magnus' reign were still mild in comparison to what followed. He almost destroyed what my father had built up in the course of a few years. Leonore did not wish that fate for her child. She knew that if she had a daughter, Athar would not be as inclined to use her to fight against Magnus—especially not since the mother would be foreign with no strong connections in Angloa, nor any sizeable connections in her own country. But Athar reasoned that if the child was born a son, it could well rally the remaining loyal men in Angloa and take back the throne." Edward turned silent as he let them process what he had told them. It slowly dawned on them where he was going with his story.

"The night I was born, my mother had her handmaiden rush to the neighbors, who happened to have an infant daughter, just a few weeks older than I. Claudine switched us for a few hours—enough time to fool Lord Athar into thinking my mother had given birth to a girl."

The tension in the room gave way to something else. The expression on their faces changed slowly, tediously as they comprehended just who sat in front of them. Jacob's nostrils flared and his eyes widened as he gripped the table. Carlisle could only look at Edward in disbelief, not comprehending how such an amazing story could even exist. Isabella kept most of her emotions hidden, save one: that of astonishment.

"She switched us back after Athar had given up hope of the male heir that would reclaim the throne. The first ten years of my life I was raised in Sorossa, hidden away from the world, changing from one cottage to the next every so often. My mother disguised me as a girl whenever Athar came for visits." He stopped as a chuckle escaped him, despite the severity of the situation.

"I never fully understood then why my mother would put me in dresses. I never much liked it." The green orbs turned darker, his eyes narrowing as he continued.

"It seems, however, that someone loyal to Rebecca or Magnus got wind of my existence and tried to exterminate me and my mother. When I had just turned ten, some men broke into our house and tried to kill us in our sleep. I heard the screams of my mother but never saw what happened to her. Claudine and I managed to run into the forest, chased by men carrying arrows and knives. One of them almost managed to slice my throat," he said, pointing to the thin scar going diagonally across his throat, disappearing under the shirt and trailing down to his upper chest.

"He missed but managed to wound me—probably thinking it was a killing blow. We escaped and hid in those woods for a week, I believe. I suspect they must've thought me dead for no one ever came after me again. Claudine decided to take me to France, but we never made it. Our ship was caught in a storm and we drifted to the coast of Southern Spain. She desperately wanted to return to her homeland and we started walking north, to cross the Pyrenees. Once we reached Seville she was struck by some strange sickness and we could not move. We spent a year there, giving her time to recover. I think she knew then that she would never be able to make such a journey—the fevers had left her too weak. I spent my time on the street, selling embroideries that she would make when I befriended a gypsy. The woman would help me sell the merchandise and teach me Spanish. I took her to see Claudine several times until she eventually befriended her as well. The gypsy, Sofia, moved into the hut before the year was over. I think she knew Claudine had little time left when she got worse. I believe my mother's handmaiden told her everything about me—when she knew she'd not be able to herself." Edward was unaware of how his hand had turned into a fist—unaware of how his voice had turned strangely emotionless; as if trying to conceal the pain such memories caused him.

"Claudine wrote me a letter that was not to be given to me until my sixteenth birthday. She wanted me to be older when my lineage was revealed to me. I always knew my father must've been an important man, but I never realized how important he truly was. She passed away from a fever shortly after that. Sofia decided to take me away from Spain and travel to the Far East, a place she had always wanted to go to. It was there where I learned how to fight, the art of war and planning on a battlefield. I studied their strategies and then more. I got a thorough education to say the least. But I wanted to return to Europe, for I never felt at ease in the East. I finally managed to convince Sofia." Edward laughed at the memory. "I was only a foolish teenager then, too stupid to know my own good. I should've stayed…"

When none spoke, he continued. "We traveled to Constantinople and lived there for a few years. I never knew how my father looked, so how could we have foreseen the eerie likeness that would plague me for the rest of my life? When I was fifteen, an Angloan who was visiting the city had recognized my face. Sofia did not know of my resemblance to my father up until that point. She understood before I did. She… had to silence him." He stopped, turning to stare at the mask.

"I was left confused, to say the least. It's hard to explain to a fifteen-year-old why you had to kill someone, just because that person recognized you. After that scare, she wanted to go back to the east, but I wanted answers. The only thing I got was a mask to shield my face. We moved to another part of town where we became friends with Karid and his family." Edward hesitated, not knowing if he should continue.

"I… a year later I became intimate with an older woman, the wife of a wealthy merchant. I think she found me mysterious, adventurous. So she took me to her bed."

He sneaked a glance at Isabella, jumping over the details of their lovemaking. "One night she begged me to unmask, which I did—foolishly enough. It appeared she was familiar with the face of my father, for they had lived in Angloa for some years. She was horrified at what she saw, for she thought me to be Philip Fell's ghost. Sofia went after her as well and it caused a scandal. I was the prime suspect in her death and we had to flee the city. When we arrived in Italy she gave me the letter and revealed to me who my parents were. I never really understood just how grave the matter was. She told me never to reveal my face to anyone—I had to keep my identity a secret for my own protection. We left for Spain when I was in my late teens, almost in my early twenties. It was there that I saw a painting of my father for the first time," he said and turned quiet, staring at the mask.

Edward's heart sped up as he remembered that day—the day his life came crashing down on him. He had never before really taken to heart what Sofia had said, or what he'd read in Claudine's letter. But seeing his own image reflected in the painting of Philip Fell disturbed him to new levels.

"I had always wanted to go to Angloa one day. But I realized—with every look in the mirror, with every glance at a reflecting surface, that it would never happen without that mask," he whispered, pointing at the mask laying smack in the middle of the table. Isabella looked at it as well and began to comprehend just what a big prison it symbolized for him.

"I feel just as my mother, Claudine and Sofia had: that I cannot show my face to anyone, in fear that they might use my lineage to take a throne I do not wish to have. I could not reveal myself in fear that they might start a war, using my name, wreaking havoc on Angloa. I was naïve back then. I thought that Jasper might not be Magnus—which is true. He has his flaws, but he is a better king than we give him credit for: he is not his mother. I thought that, perhaps, he would one day welcome me into court if I promised not to make any claims to the throne. But even if I had such thoughts in my mind, they were quickly subdued. My hopes for something like that ever happening were killed when Louis XII of France passed away and my mother's younger brother took the throne."

Carlisle and Jacob sat in stunned silence as they realized it was no bastard in front of them. He was indeed the son of Philip. But what was more important was that his mother was a Valois and that he was related to the current king of France. If Edward ever unmasked, he could take the throne in one single move and no one could object to it.

"But you did return," Carlisle whispered, almost afraid to break the pregnant silence. "You came back during the war."

"I learned a lot during my travels, and I thought that maybe such information might be of use. My plan was to cross the sea and help in the war. After that, I planned to go back, roaming from country to country with Sofia. But then the war was won and I went to Wessport." He snuck a glance at Isabella. "And something held me back here."

"Y-you are the _royal_ prince?" Jacob said in a stupor. "We should be calling you Your Majesty, not _Edward_ , not _General_ or _Count_! For months—for years we've been traveling and fighting by your side and you've been able to keep this? You've kept this secret even when lords sneered at you, insulted you because of their belief that you lacked a decent lineage? If they only knew!" Jacob exclaimed, getting up, running his hands erratically through his hair. "All this time," he murmured to himself.

"I understand why you had to keep who you were a secret, but it does not take away from the fact that I feel utterly cheated and insulted. I am sorry Edwa— _Majesty_ ," Carlisle snapped. "I cannot accept that I gave you my friendship and loyalty only to feel this tricked." He got up and walked away. Edward's jaw tensed considerably. Carlisle turned around in the door, casting a glance—his eyes fighting to hide anger, contempt and hurt. "I will not reveal your secret, _Sire_ ," he growled before giving a hasty bow.

Jacob looked as he left. "I better go after him before he does something stupid," he muttered, always casting nervous glances Edward's way, still taking in the amount of information given to him.

Edward and Isabella sat alone by the table, trying to discern the stale silence that had been left there with them.

"I understand Carlisle's reaction," Isabella finally said after a while. Her voice was soft and gentle, dispersing the tension left there.

"I do as well," Edward agreed. "He has a right to be angry. And so do you." He turned to face her, wanting to know once and for all what her reaction was. He was waiting for her to push him away.

"I… will not lie, Edward. This has me so confused." Chocolate eyes came up to meet his. "I never once pretended to know you—to _really_ know you. But I liked to tell myself that I could see beyond that mask of yours. Perhaps I did."

He let her speak, let her thoughts rush out raw and undisturbed. Edward did not want to interfere now as she expressed her honest emotions.

He sensed some sort of mild resentment when she continued speaking. "All this time I believed there was some sort of monster hiding under that mask—with the way you always carried yourself. I thought you a beast at first."

His shoulders slumped and his lips thinned. Isabella managed to keep her tone neutral and even. However, her eyes started lighting up as she looked into the distance, memories taking hold of her, a rush of heat and something more invading her senses.

"But when I got to know you it didn't matter to me because I knew you were a good man." She inched closer to him. "You _are_ a good man. That is what I want to believe."

Isabella had never ignored how he had resented the mask, how it seemed to plague him as much as it had her in the beginning. The only difference was that she did not have to deal with it at all times of the day. The young woman wondered how he could have carried such a heavy burden for so long. Even if she wanted to resent him, even if she wanted to be angry with him. She could not.

"It will take time… for all of us," she began. "But being apart has made me realize that it doesn't matter what name you go under or how you look—no matter how handsome you might be. You will always be the same man to me, no matter the titles or ranks life throws at us."

Never in his lifetime did he expect such a reaction from her. He had expected screams and shouts, aversion and fear. But never once did he reason she would be this understanding with him. It should have made his heart burst with joy—finally, they were on the same page. Finally, they were reunited and the truth was out. Isabella had understood that he dreaded his family—his name. It was something he'd been running from his whole life—something he'd kept hidden for so long.

A fear gripped him, set its dark roots within him. Braun had known she was his weakness. He had tried to hurt her. Edward knew he had more enemies—with and without the mask. Who else would try to get to him through Isabella?

* * *

 **A/N: There we go. I think most of you quite liked the reveal of the last chapter. I thought it better to build up to it than throw it into your face: Edward is a prince lol. I'm so proud that many of you started having an inkling during the course of the story. Then I know I've some pretty smart readers. I've had some pretty interesting theories thrown at me as we've gone along that I actually have found likable.**

 **I am beyond amazed at the amount of the reviews on the last chapter. I hope you will have liked this one as much. Next update will not be until next weekend, I did not leave you with a cliffhanger this time so maybe you can go longer waiting now hehe. I always feel bad ending some chapters on cliffhangers!**

 **Cheers!**


	17. Chapter 17

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 17_

 _February 4th, 1493 - Wessport_

"But I do not love him," the young girl cried as she ran after Rebecca Fell. Tears streamed down her face as the snows of winter drew in closer. Ice crystals fell from the skies and froze Wessport into a cold and desolate desert—no warmth would find its way into the capital after Philip Fell's death. His departure had left an empty void—a gaping hole in the country that none could fill.

Victoria felt it, deep within her soul. She had never known this loneliness and she wondered if this was what her father had felt at the death of her mother.

"My sweet little girl," Rebecca said as she turned from the frost-ridden window. The elegant and thin eyebrow arched as she hunched down to come to the same level as Victoria's face. The tears would not stop falling. "It is your uncle's wish that you marry Lord Mayne," she smiled. "And he is not so terrible, dear."

Victoria had no one who would speak up for her. Her stepmother had fled the capital, together with Lord Athar and other prominent figures of the country. She had no one to trust in the palace and it seemed her own blood was now showing its true colors.

"He is twice my age!"

"Don't be dramatic, Victoria. You are thirteen, he is twenty-six. Your stepmother Leonore married someone much more advanced in age—"

"Never speak of her! I will not hear that woman's name again!" Victoria snapped.

Rebecca let a chuckle escape. "You are to marry Edgar Mayne, his lands and riches will aid us in getting rid of the last traitors to the throne."

Victoria sank to her knees as she started realizing what kind of woman Rebecca Fell really was.

"How can you do this to me? I was on your side!" the girl's voice trembled. She was an orphan now, albeit a rich one. But no money in the world would help her against the malice of Angloa's new queen.

"You will learn not to be as naïve in the future. Take this as a lesson and learn from it. You should be grateful, Victoria, that my husband and I still allow you at court."

 _May 1st, 1502 – Sorossa_

"You should be more careful playing, William!" shouted the woman atop of her lungs. The young boy cared little. He continued running across the lawn, jumping over the deserted objects.

Leonore stared at her son. He was high in spirits, he was as eager as they came. But her brows furrowed as she kept staring at him. The long, bronze hair was swept into a low ponytail and his ragged clothes fit ill against his little body. The young woman's heart trembled. Today was his 9th birthday.

"He is growing fast," came a voice next to her. Leonore let a hollow smile sweep over her face, never quite reaching her eyes.

"He is looking more and more like his father," she stated. The staccato voice showed her urgency. "There will come a day when we cannot disguise him from Lord Athar any longer," Leonore said as she turned to Claudine.

Nine years had passed, but while it showed more in Leonore, time did not seem to have touched her companion. While Leonore had sustained a few wrinkles from her constant worrying and some silver hairs started taking root in her dark locks, it was her eyes that gave away an age far more advanced than it really was. Claudine's skin was as bright and healthy as ever. But then again, she did not spend her nights restless, claimed by horrible nightmares of what could occur if they were ever discovered.

"Why worry so much, Leonore. It is three years since he passed. Three years since the threat died with him."

"But _she_ still lives. If it is one thing I know, it is that Magnus never held any real power. It was Rebecca who controlled him, just as she is trying to control her son."

"Perhaps, but still, King Jasper has welcomed Lord Athar back at court, that has to count for something."

"No. It only makes matters worse." They turned to stare at William as he ran around in the early spring day, letting the sun caress his sunburnt face. Leonore fought against her agony. She wished to keep him in oblivion just a little longer—let him wallow in ignorance of who he truly was—let him enjoy life.

"Lord Athar will be arriving in a matter of hours. I think it is time you prepare William," Claudine mentioned.

Leonore's shoulders sank. "Go get the dress—the blue one."

* * *

 _April 23rd, 1520 – Civitavecchia, Italian Peninsula_

It was strange seeing him with a mask once more.

None of them could now tie together the face underneath and the man who wore it. Once he donned the mask, William Fell disappeared and gave way to Edward Cullen. Any trace of who he once was vanished—as if he had never existed.

But Isabella started seeing past that barrier. She perceived the same eyes that had beheld her since they first met. His mouth was the same, his countenance as well. To her, he was Edward, albeit changed since her last impression of him—but he was Edward. Of that, she had no doubt the moment the mask came on once more.

The last few days sailing back to Italy were muted, void of much communication. The crew kept their distance from Edward as he did from them. It appeared a guilt had risen in him for he would speak little to her, though trying to hide it. Isabella felt herself drift from him as well—but she did not know why. He had given her what she'd asked for, so why were they acting this way? Perhaps when they returned to Cadherra and to spring, they could sort it out. She understood that they needed to sit down once more and speak.

They all drifted into some sort of melancholy state. However, they could not overlook that the masked man was changed—or their perception of him. He was not just Edward Cullen to many of them anymore. His secrecy was gone, the mystery was revealed to them. The Angloans who had joined Braun had remained below deck, not knowing what to do anymore. Benjamin was confused at what he saw, but he had made his friends swear never to tell anyone of it.

Lorenzo could scarcely keep his composure around Edward. He had seen the paintings in Theodor Glovendale's residence—he knew who the Count resembled. Lorenzo would always bow deeply as the other sought him out. The day before docking in Civitavecchia, Edward had decided to don the mask. Strangely enough, it had helped. They knew who was underneath, but most managed to disassociate that man from the mask. Lorenzo, like Isabella and even Jacob, found it easier to speak to Edward once he donned his disguise.

Edward kept it to himself, but it was what he had feared. No longer did they treat him as an equal. He was someone else to them now and he felt guilty for it. Isabella was strangely distant from him and he knew she fought against it. Even if she had spoken those reassuring words to him, he knew she struggled. But he did not blame her. It would not only take time for reality to sink in—it would take patience. He had to remember that she had not only found out about Edward, she had killed a man she despised the very same day. He wondered how she could cope so well.

But he could not read what went on beyond _her_ mask. Isabella did not show her insecurities nor her fears to anyone. She let them remain hidden—as she'd been taught.

It was therefore that, on that late April afternoon, they were all keen to change vessels and head home for Angloa. They were all certain that the whole ordeal could be hushed down once they were in the confinements of their homes.

Isabella longed back to Cadherra. She was hopeful. After Braun had been revealed as the traitor and Edward had helped save Jasper, she was certain her father would be pardoned for his crimes of treason.

The air was loaded with metallic tension as they slowly docked. Edward's tense silhouette was outlined against the small coastal city.

Lorenzo had sent word to Lord Glovendale the previous day with one of the sailors who had docked beforehand with a rowboat. He imagined Edward wanted to meet the ambassador and explain what had happened before parting for Angloa. Lorenzo had made a silent deal with himself, which was to not reveal anything to Lord Glovendale—at the request of Cullen.

At least not yet.

The ominous black clouds that loomed over them as twilight neared, charged the tension onboard that ship. They all now carried Edward's secret—not just he.

Carlisle, however, had been the most enraged of them all. Even if Isabella and Jacob had felt slightly deceived, they had still accepted the face beneath the mask.

But not Carlisle.

He had looked up to Edward as a close friend, an equal—even as a brother. He understood why Edward would not tell him the truth. But that didn't make the truth hurt any less. To some degree, Carlisle thought he had Edward's trust. Had he not shown time and again that he could be trusted?

He never knew if he could accept his friend now. And Carlisle did not understand how Isabella or Jacob could accept him either.

When the wooden plank connected to Italian soil, they all descended with heavy steps. Theodor noted the muted air between the four. He rose a questioning eyebrow in wonder—should the reunion not be a happy one? But it seemed the expression on his face was more urgent than the one on theirs.

"Lord Cullen," he began—not dignifying the party with a greeting of welcome. He tried to keep his composure together, but it was evident that Theodor had something of utmost importance to tell them.

"Lord Braun is dead," Carlisle interrupted before anyone else could speak. He said so with a strange detachment in his voice while looking away at the gray horizon.

Theodor's word caught in his throat at the news. His eyes automatically drifted to Edward as anger once more rose within him. His jaw squared at what he had heard.

"I thought you gave me your word, Lord Cullen," Theodor hissed, still trying to control the emotions in his voice. He did not need the news of Braun's death—not at a time like this.

He was caught off guard, like the rest of them when the young brunette in the ivory dress stepped forward. Her chocolate brown eyes captivated him. Her face looked as determined as her posture. She rose her head and stood in front of Cullen; who had made a move to speak.

"I killed him," Isabella said with little ceremony. "I slit his throat."

Theodor ran his hands through his hair. When he thought it could not get worse, it had. The mess on his hand was only growing. When Isabella Swan spoke, he almost detected a hint of pride.

"You killed him," he stated in disbelief, feeling the wrinkles grow on his face and the weight add to his shoulders. The spring wind grew chilly then—as if winter was desperate to remain. Edward, Carlisle, and Jacob had no words as Isabella continued speaking.

" _I_ made no promise to spare his life. Lord Braun caused nothing but sorrow to his country and to those who surrounded him. He will not be missed," she stated.

But Isabella felt her heart sink in her chest as Theodor's mouth turned into a thin line. It was then that her eyes perceived the ship being reloaded with supplies and Lorenzo speaking with a fresh crew of sailors.

"Are you going somewhere, Lord Glovendale?" she asked as the sky opened up to small droplets of rain. The other men looked in the direction of the ship and saw the barrels and wooden boxes being hauled onboard.

"Follow me," Glovendale spoke with premonition. "There is something you must know."

He made no move to wait for them and, instead, headed for the vessel. His shoulders hunched and his feet dragged behind him. For the first time, Edward noticed the alarm in his countenance and the fatigue in his eyes. How could he not have seen that Theodor had scarcely slept nor eaten for days?

Without ceremony, they all followed his steps as he walked to the ship and headed for the dining room.

While the ambassador sat down comfortably in the head chair, the four others could not ignore the lack of ease in which they entered the room. It was here Edward had told them all of his past. The room still seemed loaded with the tale of his life. Both Carlisle and Jacob felt the hairs at the back of their necks rise as they walked in front of the masked man and sat down as far away from him as possible.

This did not go by unnoticed by Theodor. Isabella Swan, however, sat down next to her fiancé, the neutral look still plastered on her face.

There they found themselves when the dark heavens opened up to the awaiting rain. The droplets fell with force against the wooden structure of the ship, reminding them of its strength and presence.

Minutes went by where Theodor tried to find some sort of reasonable explanation to what he was about to reveal. But he found his vocabulary lacking and his tongue tied. How could he reveal to these four people what had occurred since their departure from Rome? How would they even accept it?

"You said you had urgent news when we arrived," Edward began, his deep and rich voice breaking the stiff silence.

A shadow settled upon Theodor's face and the ambassador let the full force of his fatigue show through. He knew he was amongst friends and allies—they had a right to know the extent of his worries. Jacob was the one to grow most worried—never in his life had he ever seen Theodor Glovendale so utterly defeated before.

"There was another coup in Wessport."

The rhythmic droplets of the rain blocked out the silent gasps. None found words to question the ambassador.

"Jasper has been dethroned and cast into the dungeons of the palace. I got the news last week—but he must've been there longer." The shudder in his voice told them that the news would only worsen.

"Cardinal Thorpe returned the day of the coup, I've no news about him, I know not of his involvement in all of this."

"His involvement? It is clear what his involvement is. He was the one who kept relations with Braun, he must be the one who instigated this whole thing!" Carlisle exclaimed, voicing the confusion and fear that started emerging within all of them.

It seemed they had no secure home to return to.

"He was not the one who overthrew Jasper," Theodor spat, pinching the bridge of his nose as a headache claimed him. "I need some wine," he sighed to himself. The aging ambassador went for the flask of Madeira that rested in the cupboard next to the table. He did not reach for a cup and instead drank directly out of the bottle. Alas, the alcohol did little to wash the tension away.

"Victoria Fell now sits on the throne," he finally said as he drew another sip.

They all let the words sink in, let their minds buzz with thoughts of what they'd just heard. Edward settled back in his chair. He was grateful that the mask would not show the expression on his face. Isabella stared emptily in front of herself the whole time, her hands turning into tight fists as her mask broke. Jacob and Carlisle grew pale. When none could muster enough energy to speak, Theodor continued, the shudder and tremble in his voice fading as he ingested more of the ruby liquid.

"She has sent for me, as well as other ambassadors posted throughout the continent. She wants to cement her claim to the throne."

Edward leaned forward, his eyes searching Theodor's. The depths of the forest green orbs seemed glazed over—confused. "Victoria Fell?"

It could only mean one thing to them all. "Braun was never the mastermind behind the first coup, was he?" Isabella whispered out into the void. The hairs on her arms rose as her body grew stiff.

"We cannot know for sure yet. But she has taken the throne on the premise that Magnus Fell—Jasper's father, usurped his brother, Philip. She claims to be the legitimate heir to her father." When Theodor had finished, Isabella, Jacob, and Carlisle could not help but cast a glance Edward's way. They all knew that statement to be false.

"But surely she has no right to do so? This was decades ago—what proof is there?" asked Isabella.

"It is her word, together with that of some lords at court. But it matters little if she speaks the truth or not. What matters is that she has taken the throne and I am afraid it does not bode well for Angloa."

"Why?" she asked with caution.

"Because a large part of the lords at court have fled it. She started sentencing many of them to be beheaded for treason. I know some were not so lucky." Theodor knew at least two of his friends had been taken by the queen's ax. "She wishes to eradicate any force against her." He turned to face her. "Braun might well have been one of her pawns. If she discovers that you killed him—you will never have a home again in Angloa." Glovendale did not miss the shiver that coursed through Isabella as she heard this. Edward's heart sped up as well, his mouth dried and his limbs stiffened.

"Jasper might have been lacking, but he would never have done something like beheading half of court," Carlisle whispered.

"If you return," Theodor interrupted, "she will want to know where your allegiances lie. The ones who fled court are still loyal to King Jasper and apparently plan to save him." His features darkened. "If that happens, Angloa is headed for a civil war."

"Angloa cannot bear another war! If that happens, we might well have the English knocking at our doorstep again. Doesn't she realize this? Victoria Fell will be the queen of nothing if she continues to hang onto that crown!" Edward exclaimed in frustration. He rose from the table, the chair falling with a loud thud behind him.

"Who are the lords who defied her?" Isabella demanded in a cold whisper. She wanted to know who she could trust when they returned.

"Many you already know. Lord Athar and General Fawkes were the head of the party that escaped Victoria's clutches. Many followed them without hesitating to Raven's Grove—they knew they'd not be safe even in their own homes. They are south of the forest, close to Hayes. Others have returned to their homes and simply refuse to heed the queen's summons. Victoria has declared them all traitors to the crown and is massing up an army to march upon them."

There was only defeat prevalent in the eyes of the Angloans. "She will bring misery to our country," Jacob whispered.

Isabella's heart skipped in painful beats. "Many will die." Suddenly thoughts of her mother came to mind.

"You do not have to return," Theodor suggested. He turned to face Edward's stiff back. "Everyone knew you were loyal to King Jasper. It wouldn't be safe for you to return to court anyway."

It seemed as if something important was going through Edward's mind then, for he did not answer.

"I need to see that my family is safe," Carlisle muttered, concern growing as he took in the news. In the flick of a second, their world had once more turned upside down. The droplets grew louder as the rains gained force.

"I left my mother in Cadherra," Isabella began. "I need to know that she is safe as well." The thought of leaving Adelton Hall hurt her more than she could imagine. All these weeks she'd thought of nothing else.

Edward straightened up and walked back to them. "We will return to Adelton and bring her with us. And then we leave Angloa," he reassured her.

Theodor looked at them in disbelief. "I know I've no choice to openly speak against her—for I am tied down. But you people if anyone should join Lord Athar and General Fawkes. I know they will expect it!" Theodor fumed as he rose from his seat. His voice held an undertone of condemnation.

But how could Theodor know what they did? Edward had a reason for not returning. He did not wish to meddle in these affairs. If his identity was ever discovered, it would do nothing but aggravate the situation. His presence would indeed spark a full-on civil war. His reasons for not returning were as diplomatic as Theodor's were for going. When he had first sailed to Angloa, he had been more naïve—and it had been a time of war against another country.

It had not been a war of succession, as it was now.

"There are reasons why I should not get involved in this conflict. My presence next to Lord Athar and General Fawkes would only arise tensions and it might indeed spark a war between Victoria and the lords of the land. Maybe she will prove to be a good ruler. She is the daughter of Philip Fell, after all."

But Edward held little hope in his voice as he spoke. He remembered when Leonore would speak with him of his father and how his brother would strive for Philip's position. She never revealed that Magnus sought Philip's throne—for she never told Edward his father was a king: _the_ king. But he could remember the look of sorrow and anger as she recalled her time by his father's side. Edward had grown wary against the crown. It only caused brothers and family to turn against one another. It was no different now. It was one of the biggest reasons for him not wanting that cold golden headpiece that symbolized power.

"How can you abandon your true king?" Theodor exclaimed. He thought that Edward Cullen, if anyone, would rush to join Lord Athar and save Jasper. "I am certain Jasper is counting on you."

"My lord," Isabella interrupted. "He has his reasons," she told him off. She did not fully understand why Edward was reluctant to join Athar yet—but she had an inkling.

Edward turned to face her directly which he had not done for the past few days. "But we will retrieve your mother, Isabella. That much I promise you."

Theodor could not believe what he was hearing. How could the prideful Lion of the North abandon his king? Carlisle and Jacob were too occupied worrying about their families to join in on Theodor's protests.

After a stiff silence, he spoke once more. "I can take you as far as Coldwick. After that, you are on your own."

"Perhaps, my lord, one day you will understand why I chose not to join in on this conflict," Edward said in his low voice.

Theodor rose from the chair, the wood scraping painfully against the floor. He had a lot to go over with Lorenzo. They had to part that same night, even if the tide was low. The rains would raise the water level enough to allow them to exit the port. "I do not believe I will," he muttered, yearning to get away from them as fast as possible. Theodor had not the heart to express his full disappointment in the masked man.

 _May 2nd_

For the first time in months, they perceived the coast of Angloa. The snows had been eradicated by the warmth of spring. The sun shone warmer now and the air was not as fiercely cold as it had once been. It was the same gentle breeze they had encountered near the Mediterranean.

Isabella looked at the landmass and her heart soared. She was home. Despite feeling conflicted, it made her happy. The young woman did not know what would happen after they retrieved Lady Renée Swan, she did not wish to ponder too much on it.

Edward had still been quite distant from her. He did not show it but he felt shame. He felt a confusing shame at not wanting to join the other lords against Victoria—his half-sister. The secret was that he had no wish to fight his family.

Isabella had family in Spain on her father's side. She was certain they would welcome her and her mother if she wrote them. Edward saw that as enough. He would take them as far as Toledo. She did not have the heart to ask what he meant by that. Would he not stay with them? A panic settled within her as she thought that Edward might abandon her in Spain. Had he not crossed a sea to find her? How would he abandon her now?

Why should their homecoming be so bittersweet? Why should the thought of returning to Angloa be so strange to her?

When they docked north of Coldwick, they kept their hoods up. They could not stop in port as it would arise suspicion and attract curious onlookers. If it was ever revealed that Edward Cullen had entered the country, it would only be a matter of time before the new queen sent her soldiers to get them.

Maybe it was them, but the earth seemed much sweeter now—the land sighing in relief as they stepped onto it for the first time since winter.

Spring was supposed to bring joy and life with it—a new beginning. Isabella remembered when they had parted for Coldwick an early and cold winter morning when the stars still graced the sky and the snow painted the landscape white.

The white was gone and had given way to emerald meadows, young leaves, and blooming bushes. Flowers in all colors hid in every nook and cranny as birdsong was more prevalent. The stillness that winter brought on had drifted away with the wind. The tang of overturned earth invaded their nostrils together with the sweet scent of herbs and flowers.

Theodor had not come to bid his goodbyes, he did well in showing his reluctance at Edward's decision. But how could Lord Glovendale ever begin to know the real reasons for Edward's aversion to joining the other lords? At least, that was what the doubtful man told himself.

They had acquired four horses to carry them all the way to Adelton. The masked man could not ignore the expanding heart in his chest as the powerful legs of the stallion stretched beneath him as they cantered across the rolling hills, toward the Durun Mountains that rose mighty in the distance. He could not ignore the speeding rhythm as he snuck a glance of the woman that rode next to him—how her auburn locks danced in the wind, how her ivory dress swayed around her like a hazy cloud. Despite it all, he could not ignore what she provoked in him, nor what his homeland provoked in him.

Just as Zoráida felt a deep connection to her country, Edward started feeling his legs grow roots on that complicated island.

They closed in on Adelton and Hayes during the early afternoon. Edward decided not to ride in through the town—it would be better to sneak into the castle from below and get Renée Swan out as quickly as possible.

Carlisle had stayed silent for a long time, staring mostly at the ground, trying to ignore the masked man that rode on ahead. When they spotted the white castle in the distance—now more radiant than ever as it contrasted against the dark mountains and splendor of the surrounding greenery—he spoke up.

"After we get Lady Swan, I am headed for my own family," he said, only audible enough for Edward to hear.

The man did not turn his head and Carlisle thought he would be ignored at first. But then, Edward slowed down his horse, riding side by side with Carlisle. Jacob and Isabella increased their speed, giving them some space to speak.

"Understandable."

Strangely, Carlisle had hoped Edward would protest, saying how he needed him by his side. But he had forgotten that the man he spoke with was the man who had taken no counsel from anyone during their war campaign. He did not need someone to lean on. It was Carlisle Chaeld who wanted the gratification of being needed.

"And after that, I am headed for Raven's Grove to join Lord Athar."

Those words did indeed provoke some sort of reaction in the other. For he could see Edward tense, before quickly masking it.

"Then I wish you luck. They will be lucky to have you leading their ranks."

"They would be more so having you." Edward had never heard someone express malice and sadness in their voice at the same time.

"You know I cannot go." The surrounding nature did not seem so sweet to them anymore. The warmth of day gave way to frisky winds and the hot, blinding rays of the sun grew too invasive.

"That you will not go, is what you mean. It matters little who you are, my lor— _Sire_. Jasper Fell has been usurped and you will not lift a finger to help him—your own blood."

Edward stopped his horse, squaring his jaw as he clutched his hands around the reigns. "If I were ever unmasked, it would not help Jasper much. I would just be seen as another pretender for the crown. Victoria Fell would unleash all her power against me—against those lords who hold out by Raven's Grove because she would know I'd have the right to the throne. How could I ever knowingly join Lord Athar when the knowledge of my very existence could spark a civil war the likes of which Angloa has ever seen? This face," he said pointing to the mask, "has killed more people than you can count."

Carlisle could not ignore the slight hint of shame as those words were uttered. Isabella and Jacob had stopped their horses as well. They stood on that empty meadow, the grass swaying in the wind as the leaves of the trees played their melodic tune.

"Yet, you came to fight for us against the English."

"I came as Edward Cullen, not as William Fell."

"You do not have to reveal who you are to the other lords. But perhaps you've other reasons to see your own cousin rot in prison," Carlisle gritted his teeth, urging his horse into a gallop.

Edward stared at him as he rushed toward the tree line. He looked away in shame. Perhaps he had lost himself too much during the last few years. Jacob's lips had turned into a thin line as he rode after Carlisle. He could not speak up, for what his friend said was true. Jacob did not understand why Edward would not help Athar and Fawkes fight against Victoria—it seemed a civil war was inevitable either way.

Isabella remained there, looking at him with a sorrowful expression in her eyes. She did not entirely understand him either, but she refrained from judging him.

"Come, Edward," was all she said. She had no other words to offer. The masked man stared at her and she would never forget that haunting expression in his eyes before he urged his stallion into a wild gallop.

* * *

Adelton Hall had not changed since their departure. In spring it was more beautiful and none could ignore it as they reached the massive structure. Carlisle had kept his distance from Edward as they dismounted from their horses, leaving them to graze below the castle. They would sneak in by the gardens—unseen by anyone who might sound the alarm.

Isabella recalled the last time she had been there—walking with Jacob as he had tried to befriend her. She cast him a glance and smiled. Jacob smiled back, despite the tension in the air. He seemed to be recalling the same memory.

They climbed the stone steps—ivy and other fauna obscuring it, making it almost invisible in all the greenery. They had to duck and hide a few times as some servant or guard passed by. Edward recognized some of his own men—men who had followed him from Castell, men who had fought with him. But he did not wish to chance it. He would not make his presence known even now.

The group found the door at the bottom, leading to a passageway that would eventually take them to the kitchens. Edward stayed on ahead, careful not to draw his sword yet.

Lurking past the kitchens and hallways of the bottom of the castle sent their hearts jumping irregularly. They were close to being caught several times, a confrontation averted only by Edward's quick reflexes.

Isabella's hands followed along the cool walls of the structure, not believing she was returned to the bosom of her childhood. The emotions were more than mixed and she had not the time to dwell much on them. But it was cruel that she would not be able to stay there anymore. As soon as they had located her mother, they were off to Coldwick to catch another ship off the island.

The closer they got to their old quarters, the more people seemed to be grazing the otherwise desolate hallways. The lack of lit torches served to help them as they could easily hide within the shielding blankets of darkness.

An eeriness emerged within Edward being back there—the old seat of his father's throne. The place his father had been born. He had always tried to ignore it. But sometimes, when they had lived there, he would venture into the Throne Room and imagine Philip Fell in his golden years, perched upon the wooden throne, ruling Angloa. That was another reason for accepting the lands of Cadherra—for they were his ancestral lands and Adelton had once belonged to his family. He had wanted to see that castle of which he'd read so much as a child.

Edward and Isabella were drawn to the past in their own ways, one reminiscing, and the other imagining. When they heard the approaching steps it was too late to hide. They were caught at a disadvantage.

Edward unsheathed his sword as the footsteps approached—it was a lone person, someone to be quickly dealt with.

Isabella pushed against the wall, shielded by Carlisle as Jacob joined Edward to his left. They expected some guard or a footman. But they never expected Mrs. Hammond herself to round the corner, carrying some folded blankets against her bosom.

The old, short woman's chin fell to the ground as she saw the lot, dropping the fabrics with a muted thud.

There stood Edward Cullen with drawn sword and dagger, sporting the same black mask she'd grown so used to. He stood almost like an apparition. Last she _saw_ him he was headed for Wessport. Last she _heard_ of him he had defied his king's orders and headed after a kidnapped Isabella. Mrs. Hammond had neigh slept a wink these last few months after the worrying recounts of the occurrences in Wessport. But her mind was never far from Isabella, wondering where that sweet little girl had been taken and what hardships she'd gone through.

Mrs. Hammond could not mask her astonishment as she caught sight of a young brunette in an ivory dress stepping forth between Edward Cullen and Jacob Black.

The young woman looked thinner, worn and older—in a sense. The expression in her chocolate eyes spoke of events Mrs. Hammond rather not hear. There was a haunted look masked by poise and a sense of propriety. Isabella neared Mrs. Hammond—a connection to all that was good to her, the symbol of her happier days and her childhood.

Mrs. Hammond could not stop as the tears built up and started falling like an untamed rainstorm. She stretched out her hands, opening to embrace the girl. Isabella never hesitated as she jumped into her arms, a sigh escaping her as she held the older woman hard, relishing in forgotten memories and in the past.

"My sweet, sweet girl!" Mrs. Hammond exclaimed with a thick voice. She wiped away the tears and pushed Isabella at arm's length, taking in the sight of her. "We all thought you lost forever!"

"I prevailed, Mrs. Hammond. And if it were not for these wonderful men, I do not think I would be standing here now," she smiled, the haunted look momentarily giving way to gratitude and joy.

Mrs. Hammond looked past Isabella and sent the trio a grateful glance—lingering extra-long on Edward who had sheathed his sword.

But then alarm lit in her eyes. She had been so taken with seeing them that she had forgotten herself. "But you cannot be here," Mrs. Hammond whispered with urgency. "You must leave Adelton at once!"

Isabella frowned in confusion. "Leave?"

Mrs. Hammond looked around, finding they were still undisturbed. "Come, follow me. The fewer who see you, the better," she said, looking over her shoulder.

Edward locked eyes with both Carlisle and Jacob—he wondered if it was safe to trust in Mrs. Hammond. The sudden urgency in her character unsettled him.

"I will not lead you into a trap, Lord Cullen. I aim to keep you all out of harm's way!"

Edward stepped forth, towering over her as he had the first time they'd met. "I hope you understand my reluctance to place my faith in just anyone these days, Mrs. Hammond," he said in a husky voice. And just as the first time she had met him, Mrs. Hammond did not let herself be intimidated.

"Victoria Fell has us all looking behind our backs," she muttered, motioning for them to follow her. "We are not far from your quarters, Miss Swan—we will be undisturbed there."

They all settled into a fast pace, letting Mrs. Hammond lead them ahead as she kept an eye out for servants or guards. They arrived at Isabella's old chambers and barred the door behind them.

When Isabella turned around, her past seemingly hit her square in the face. The room was the same since she left for Wessport. Dust had collected—for it was not as cleaned as when she arrived the first time. It was almost eerie how still and peaceful it was—as if the girl once living here had long since died.

And maybe she had, in a way.

She made way to the thing that was closest to her heart—or had been: her books. The tomes that stacked her shelf were scarce and torn. She had read them many times. She had looked through those pages trying to escape her own mundane life. Her hand went to graze over the leather binding, stopping on one book in particular. Her diary seemed to have collected most of the dust in that room.

If there was one thing she would bring with her it was her memories of her past and father—of a time she had no worries. The lines in between those pages no longer held pain and sorrow for her. Before she could open it and explore what she had once felt, what had once excited her, a voice broke through the stillness and peace.

"The queen has ordered for your arrest, Lord Cullen," Mrs. Hammond said as she went to look out the window. "She wants you brought to Wessport as soon as you enter the country—is what they have been saying all over Cadherra for the last few weeks."

"I figured as much," Edward muttered. "I will not give her that satisfaction."

"We have only come for mother," Isabella cut in, wondering why Mrs. Hammond had not brought them straight to Renée. "I hope she is well?"

She could not see the face of the old woman, only her back stiffen at such words. When her head sank forward in defeat, Isabella dropped her diary, thinking the worst. "N-no," she whispered, not being able to accept that her mother was gone.

"She is not dead, my dear," Mrs. Hammond assured as she turned around. "But I fear what she has gone through. By order of the queen, Lady Renée was brought to court—an invitation they said but your mother had no other choice but to go. The soldiers sent down for her would not take no for an answer."

"Victoria must have known that if we ever returned, we would seek Lady Renée out," Edward murmured, trying to hide the fury that laced his voice. He had started pacing the room, as if in deep thought over the matter.

"So my mother is in Wessport?" Isabella went over to the bed to sit down on it. She had hoped to never return to that infernal place again.

"She has been there for the past three weeks," Mrs. Hammond regretted.

The young woman bounced off her bed, the stern look in her eyes had returned, settled with an iron determination. "Then I will go there and get her," she said with such conviction that even Mrs. Hammond was ready to set out just that moment.

It was Edward who brought her down to earth once more. "It's a trap—to get us all to Wessport," he growled, surprised at Victoria's planning.

"Of course it's a trap," Jacob agreed. "She probably wants you in court before you could ever meet with Lord Athar or General Fawkes by Raven's Grove. She knows we would not just leave Lady Renée there to fend for herself."

Edward made a move as if to run his fingers through his hair but stopped in frustration as he encountered the mask. He turned his back on them, stiff and tense as his mind wandered off—deep in thought.

"Will you leave us for a moment?" Isabella asked after a while. The three people stared back at her and then glanced at Edward. Mrs. Hammond was astonished that Isabella had asked to be alone with Edward. She wondered how much both had gone through during their journey—how much closer they had gotten.

When they closed the door after themselves, Isabella locked it, turning to face him with a neutral expression. "I will not ask you to come to Wessport with me."

"You do not have to ask such a thing, Isabella," he said as he turned to face her. "You know I will come—"

He was cut short by her as she continued. "I will, instead, ask you to defer from coming with me," she said as she inched closer, raising her head to meet his forest green depths.

Even with the mask, she could read the surprise displayed in his eyes. "What?" he asked in a dumbfounded voice.

"If you come to Wessport, Victoria wins. I cannot say that I entirely understand all of your reasons not to join Lord Athar—but would it not be worse being within the queen's clutches? I mean, we know nothing about her yet. Consider what she would do to you—a known supporter and loyal subject to Jasper."

Edward needed little imagination to picture the inside of a dungeon. He wondered if Victoria would throw him in a cell directly or toy with him first.

"I will not let you go alone. It is too dangerous."

"I have survived worse," she said as her voice softened. "I do not understand you. You would abandon Jasper and refrain from joining Athar when he needs you the most—yet you do not hesitate in jumping straight into the lion's mouth for me and my mother."

"I crossed a sea to find you, Isabella. I thought it was obvious by now why I would do such a thing," he growled, looking away from her big eyes. He was not able to meet them head-on.

"I find that hard to understand still, Edward. You distance yourself from me! You would save me time and again only to deliver us to a safe place and then what? Would you leave me?" she argued but never rose her voice. "Tell me what you would do after you left me and mother in Toledo." Isabella did little to mask the hurt in her voice.

He went over to the bed and sank down on it. "Make me understand," she begged as she sank down next to him. "I want to understand."

There was a moment where he did not speak. It was almost as if he wanted to pour out all of his emotions. But Edward kept his mouth shut.

He rose up, walking away from her. "I will get your mother out of Wessport."

Her shoulders dropped as he would not lower his mask, not even when around her. Her feelings for him had grown to depths she never thought possible. But Isabella worried that Edward might not feel as intensely about her. It was true that he had done everything and more for her, so why would he not then open up to her? She had not the heart to ask him, afraid of what the answer would be. She did not understand this sudden need to distance himself from her. Maybe too much had been revealed too quickly and the otherwise secretive man did not know how to handle it.

The young woman rose from the bed as well, walking over to the window and staring out as the afternoon progressed.

Both were frightened and confused at what the future might entail. But, secretly, they knew they wanted a future together. There was nothing else Edward could desire. But he had started realizing that it was too dangerous for Isabella to be at his side if he was ever discovered. He had been selfish before, he would not be so again.

* * *

 **A/N: Here again after 2 weeks! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I have started writing on the thrid and last installment of this series. But this story is not yet over :) I am thrilled that so many reviewed the last chapter! Let me know what you thought of this one :)**

 **Cheers!**


	18. Chapter 18

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 18_

 _October 14th, 1493 – Wessport_

The physician left the room, rough pieces of white cloth scrubbed hard against blood-stained hands. Victoria lay in bed, her tears staining the soiled sheets as her handmaiden held her in her arms. She did not wish to see as the fetus was taken away, dead and underdeveloped—having entered the world too early.

Magnus waited beyond the door, jumping to question the tired old physician as he left the princess' chambers.

"Well?" Magnus demanded. "What of my niece?"

"The child was born too early." To anyone listening, it was clear that the man was furious, and he did little to hide it. "She was too young to be pregnant, too young to have children. I thought her husband knew this!" he rumbled with such a ferocity that the windows might rattle.

Magnus' lips settled into a thin line. "I may be a king, but I will not step in between a husband and his wife."

"There are rules! The only reason we wed girls so young is with the promise from their husbands that they will wait until they're fully grown! She will never be able to have children again, the damage is too great," he exclaimed with relentless anger and sadness. The man had seen many cases like these: young girls wed to men much older than them. By law of the church, their husbands had to wait to lay with them until they had come of age—so that their bodies would be physically able to carry children.

Rebecca Fell joined them, little concern in her features. She carried her son's hand in her own. Jasper looked at the adults and tugged at his mother's hand. He was eager to go and play in the gardens. "She should see it as a blessing—childbirth is painful. You are only here to do your job, physician, not to give us your opinion. We do not pay for that. If there is nothing else you can do for her, then you may leave," the queen said with her teeth glinting dangerously at him.

"But—"

"Unless you want to spend the following nights in our dungeons for insubordination?" Rebecca cut him off. The physician turned white and bowed, hastily leaving the monarchs.

Magnus turned to Rebecca. "You wanted this to happen. No, you _knew_ this would happen!" he exclaimed in anger. Rebecca looked shocked, placing her hands over Jasper' ears.

"How dare you villainize me, your own wife! And in front of our son?" she spat. "Besides, it is better this way. Victoria will not get any ideas of now claiming the thr—"

"What claim will she have? She never once expressed a will to take it over! And now you have destroyed her life forever." Magnus uttered in shock. He stormed off, unable to accept the monster his wife truly was.

Unbeknownst to them, the door had stood open a sliver, allowing the whole of the conversation to seep into the room of the princess, the venomous words invading her ears. Her tears stopped then, for she knew no amount of crying would ever resolve the horror that had been revealed to her.

 _June 16th, 1503 – Sorossa_

"Mother, you know that man who always comes to see us, that old stranger?" the young boy asked.

"You mean Thomas?" Leonore asked as she brushed his long hair. The glossy copper locks trailing past his waist were part of his disguise.

"Is he the reason I have to wear dresses and have long hair?" Leonore stopped brushing, her chest closing in around heart. She knew there would come a day when her son would demand questions. But she knew he was not yet ready. He had asked before, and like so many other times, she gave him the same answer.

"It is complicated, my sweet," she murmured.

William turned around in his seat, his green eyes digging into Leonore's. "No, I want to know why I have to dress up as a girl whenever he is around. I have a right to know," he said, pushing the brush aside.

Leonore's lip trembled. "It is for your own safety," she answered unwillingly after a pause. The steady thud of the wind pushed against the frail walls of the house. A storm had been plaguing the countryside for days. And for days they had stayed indoors. It made the young boy restless and more curious than usual.

"Has this anything to do with who my father really is?" he asked in a careful manner. Leonore looked away.

"You have been talking with Claudine again, haven't you?"

"She hasn't said anything, I swear! She only told me father was an important man!" Leonore's anger toward Claudine grew. How could she go against her wishes to keep Philip's identity from William? Claudine wanted the young prince to know everything. But Leonore was frightened that once her son found out that he was heir to the throne, he would want to claim it. She wanted to make him understand what that throne meant before telling him of his father.

"Someday I will tell you, I promise—when you're old enough," she said as she started brushing his hair again. But he moved away from her touch.

"My father was a bad man, wasn't he? Did he kill someone powerful? Is that why we have to move from place to place every few years, to hide?"

Leonore sighed and put down the brush. She had little choice. "Listen to me. Your father was a good man, an honest man. But he had many burdens to carry. And he had a lot to his name. In fact, your father had so much that others got jealous of him, even his family. Because of the power and wealth your father held, he lost those closest to him and made secret enemies in the process."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that your father had power, and while it did not corrupt him, it corrupted those around him—turned them into ugly creatures. It means that I do not want that for you, that is why we hide. And Thomas helps us. But he can never know you are a boy, William. Is that clear?"

The urgency in his mother's voice awoke a sense of duty in William. He wanted to make her happy—make her feel safe.

"I understand."

* * *

 _May 4th, 1520 – Coldwick_

The city of Coldwick had always been an enigma to her. It was not far from some bothersome marshes and swamps—uninhabitable since before anyone could remember. Many thought Coldwick to be the oldest city in Angloa. The fact that a rundown aqueduct graced the very center of the small town added greatly to that rumor. It bore the essence of what was Angloa—a fairy-tale like land, hardened by centuries of oppression and raised through the strength and will of its people. It showed the roughness around the edges and their pride. The people of Coldwick were a proud bunch as well—but the kindest and most openhearted Isabella had ever known. Nowhere else in Angloa would she find such smiling and happy faces as she had in Coldwick.

Therefore, their return there brought great shock when, for the first time, both she and Edward perceived the gloomy aura that hugged the town like a suffocating blanket. Gone was the lightheartedness and prideful strength. The people walked with their heads bent down. They spoke in hushed voices, refusing to make eye contact as they had the day she docked in the port when returning from Wessport.

They sat on a rundown carriage, Isabella hugging the thick wool blanket closer around her as Edward—hunched over, directed the two frail-looking horses. If anyone didn't know better, they looked like two farmers, one a young woman, the other a man with bandages around parts of his face where puss seemed to leek through in places. One of his eyes was bandaged over as well. People refrained from looking at the gloomy face that protruded from underneath the shallow hood. Edward's disguise worked to perfection—they all thought him a sickly wretch, at least.

He could not refrain from perceiving the change in atmosphere as well.

It was just him and Isabella now. Despite Jacob and Carlisle insisting on following with them—he had ordered both to remain and seek out their families. This was where their paths would divide. They had kept their word, they had helped him get Isabella. He released them of their bonds. Jacob was highly reluctant in letting his friend just waltz over to Wessport with Isabella. Carlisle said little on the matter. He was too conflicted over Edward Cullen. If the man wouldn't join in on the fight against Victoria Fell anyway, then why bother following such a man?

To be honest, none of them knew to which extent Victoria's rule stretched. The stories of oppression they had heard so far were not new—people loved to complain about authority. But seeing Coldwick thus, he started realizing in what manner she ruled.

When they passed the stocks—alarmed at seeing it overburdened with prisoners, he urged the horses faster. Edward did not wish for Isabella to see the sight of those suffering men. Some were haplessly tied to the side of the stocks—for there weren't enough. They all hung their heads in shame, tired faces covered in much. But no amount of dirt could cover the lost hope that dwelled within their eyes—a fear and uncertainty of life, brought on by an unstable future.

It seemed whoever had been appointed to govern Coldwick did so with an iron fist. Isabella turned around in the little wagon, her eyes colliding with a teenage boy, dirty and thin as a twig. His eyes were hollow—as if he had suffered much in a small amount of time. His tousled hair fell into his face when he quickly diverted his black eyes, staring at the ground.

"Had no one told me that Victoria had seized power, I would've thought our king had died and the country slipped into oblivion," she whispered in Edward's ear as the tired horses kept dragging them forth.

"The truth is not far from it," was the answer she received. Isabella could imagine his handsome face contorting in pain under the bandages. It had to be hard for Edward, seeing the people suffer, knowing it was directly due to the actions of his own blood. But she said nothing. Perhaps seeing his people suffer would set his mind straight and change his earlier decision.

Getting onto a ship going for Wessport proved to be harder than imagined. Edward's disguise did not exactly do him any favors at this point.

"That leper there is not going near my ship," the captain spat as he squinted at the hunched over man. His eyebrow had arched as a beautiful brunette with deep brown eyes had begged him to allow them safe passage on his next trip to the capital. "If he infects Wessport and the queen finds out, I will be the first to end up on the executioner's block," he said. There was a hint of fear in his voice.

"I beg of you sir, my brother is no leper. He suffered a horrible accident overseas. We just want to return home. Please!" She got down on her knees and desperately gripped the hem of his cape. The man's face turned red as they attracted stares from passing pedestrians. He quickly forced her to stand up.

Isabella's mask fell into place and she conjured up the most heart-wrenching expression her mind could muster. The man took a step back, gritting his teeth. "Your brother," he said after a while, pointing at Edward. "He sleeps on upper deck, in a designated corner, away from the rest of us. You are to feed him and care for him yourself. If I notice that you are taking ill, or that anyone else on board is, I throw both of you overboard. Is that clear?" he stated with such evident remorse taking form in his features that Isabella almost felt bad for him.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed and clasped her hands together, small tears of joy escaping her eyes as her lips quivered in gratitude.

"We sail with the morning tide. We will not wait for you and I expect you to pay the full price for the trip—even if your brother does not get a cabin."

"Of course," she agreed. "Nicholas, thank the nice captain," she whispered visibly to Edward. He was about to step forward to shake hands with the man when he quickly drew back from them.

"That will not be necessary," the captain said, looking at Edward's bandaged hands in fear and disgust. "Tomorrow before dawn," he reminded them.

When the man was away they both went to a small and dingy inn at the edge of town, certain they would not be bothered there.

The innkeeper led them to the worst room he had, not wanting to take chances with the bandaged man—if he so happened to be a leper. The young woman had been convincing enough to make him agree on renting them something with a roof over their heads. As soon as the door was closed and locked they went to their own corner in the room.

Two days they had been in Angloa—but those days seemed an eternity that had created the largest rift yet between them. Isabella was good at hiding the desperation and fear she held of losing his affection. She hid how confused his actions made her and she hid the most important thing of all—her own feelings toward him. If Edward had grown tired of her and no longer cared as much for her, she would not embarrass herself by seeking him out.

Edward removed the bandages and wiped away the wax and honey he had placed between the white linen that was to appear as puss. He kept away from Isabella, afraid of his ever-growing feelings toward her, afraid of the realization that his presence could cause danger for her. If his true identity was ever found out, his enemies would go after those he cared for—they would go after Isabella. But he also hid the war that waged within him now that he was on Angloan soil again. He was torn between helping his country and chasing his own freedom.

The candle flickered eerily as night pressed on. The lone bed beckoned them, but none would near it, afraid what their nearness would cause, and the consequences that would it bear for each individual.

They stared at it for a long time, trying to make small talk, but it only led to more uncertainty.

When midnight reached the window of their little room, they finally went to bed—both quiet and concerned. Isabella had kept her eyes glued to the dirty floor of their room for most of the night, turning away from him—afraid those intense eyes of his would capture her in the middle of the night.

Edward thought she avoided looking directly at him because of his bare face. Her misinterpreted action hurt him more than he cared to reveal. He grew afraid that she was mainly pushing him away because of his heritage.

Both fell asleep with contorted faces, their dreams not allowing them the easy rest they had hoped for.

 _May 10th, Wessport_

Church bells rang in strong cries across the capital. The seagulls and doves flew along the rooftops of the bustling city. It did not seem to have changed much since their departure. Edward stared at the port in confined silence. The wax and honey itched his skin, his hands uneasy—wanting to grip the sword that was hidden in their trunk that they had carried with them from Adelton.

Wessport was not as gray or white as they remembered. The snow was gone and it was encircled by planted fields, outlined by green forests.

But that was not what caught their attention. It was the stench—more prominent now as the ice and coldness could no longer keep it hidden and frozen.

They undocked, taking care in quickly blending into the masses before the guards that patrolled the docks could spot them.

There were more guards now, more soldiers prodding the people, keeping an eye on them. The masses were as in Coldwick—keeping their heads down, afraid to make eye contact with the armed men. This was not what he had left. He wondered how much Victoria had changed in Angloa for there to be such a general unsettled air, fright and—almost—paranoia.

They carried the heavy wooden trunk to a dark alley where he got out the sword, hiding it in the folds of his many coats, concealing his form. When he hunched over, Edward didn't seem as tall.

Isabella took out a few shawls and put them over her hair, keeping her head down as well. She was afraid to be recognized here.

They had no plan yet to get her mother out. The first thing they needed to do was to find an ally within the walls of the city. After that, they could plan their rescue and their escape.

But who could they trust? All lords opposing Victoria had fled the city. Those left were supposedly loyal to her. There were few options left.

Edward and Isabella went to the first inner wall of the city, separating the middle and outer circle. It was the main gate—the road leading directly to the palace.

It was there that the full force of a vile stench hit them. Isabella choked on it and her eyes watered from the raw and repugnant odor. Edward could not refrain from a fit of coughing that seized him.

They had felt that stench before; when docking in port. And now they saw the source of it. The raw rotten smell belonged to severed heads and body-parts that were pierced on tall, iron pikes, lining the entrance to the middle circle.

The flesh had long since started rotting and crows constantly flew by, picking at the skin that so easily tore away from the muscle and bone. Isabella looked at the long line of heads that clung to the wall in stunned silence.

Right by the entrance, an elegant sign read: "Traitors beware" in big and bold letters. The soldiers guarding the entrance had scarves across their lower faces, no doubt to protect against the smell.

Edward could not find words to describe the wretched state he found himself in. His mouth had dropped as he spotted a few familiar faces—some soldiers who had fought for him or General Fawkes during the war.

It suddenly became clear to them what kind of ruler Victoria Fell was. Ruthless and cruel.

Edward recovered quicker than Isabella and urged her to walk up to that entrance, past the display of death and cruelty that was shown so proudly.

The guards paid little heed to them as they sneaked past while Edward squeezed a coin pouch into the hands of one of them.

Past the wall, on the other side, they saw more heads aligned—decaying flesh invading the air around them, suffocating them—the foul stench tainting the insides of their lungs. They found a desolate alley and Isabella had to take deep and painful breaths until the worst of the shock was over.

A calming hand rested on her back and she turned to face Edward with raw fear in her eyes. "What if we see more of that the closer we get to the palace?" she uttered in terror. Isabella had never seen its likeness. "What if my mother—" she could not bear the thought.

"We know nothing of Renée. I don't believe we will find her on such a display," he said in calming words.

She suddenly turned to him, the fear greater now—the control she had learned was gone in an instant. "Edward, you must get away from here. This place is not just dangerous for you—it could be the end of you," she urged in such a terrified manner that he was taken aback by the strength in her voice.

"We need to get Lady Renée first."

She ignored him. "If they find you as Edward Cullen, Victoria will behead you without a second's thought. If they find you as William Fe—," she stopped herself before uttering the full name. "She will do the same."

Isabella had never before felt so much terror in her life. "This is an inferno, a personal inferno!" she exclaimed in anguish.

Edward reached out to her, bringing her closer to him despite himself. He did not ignore the warmth that coursed through him as she was close to his body. He tore off the bandages from his face and removed the hood, ignoring the honey that soiled his left cheek and right brow.

Her eyes met his with full force. Isabella's heart raced for several reasons, his nearness the most prevalent of them.

"I will not let someone like Victoria touch your mother, Isabella," he said with conviction. The masculine voice had once more replaced the familiar growl. Someone else stepped forth behind the disguise of Edward Cullen. Someone that could convince her of his sincerity with the mere flick of his finger. "If we work together and if you trust me, we will get her out."

She remained silent, staring only at every feature of his visage.

"Will you do that, despite the lies and deceit I've brought you? You will be rid of me once this ordeal is over. You will not have to look at the man that has brought you so much misery," he stated.

She could not form a coherent sentence in her mind, so Isabella only nodded.

"Good. I know someone who has a reason to hate Victoria Fell and her followers more than anyone. If that person is still within the walls of the city, we might have a chance." He looked through the folds of his cape and retrieved a simple handkerchief that he used to clean his face. Then he searched deeper within the cape until he found what he was looking for.

Isabella did not think he would actually bring the mask with him—but there it was, folded in his hands.

"You cannot be serious," she stated in anger. "Victoria Fell is looking for you—for Cullen!"

"I know how to blend into these streets—they will not find me. And this person only knew me as Edward Cullen," he said, placing the mask over his head and tying the laces. He fished the leather gloves from secret pockets in the cape and put them on.

Once more he stood before her, towering like a giant—the bulky clothes serving to enlarge his form, making him look large, strong and bulkier than he was. He switched capes to one with a deeper hood.

"Meet me at the Landen Inn in a few hours. Get a room for us under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. If I am not back by nightfall you leave the city, alright? It means that I've been taken," he said with premonition.

She was not ready to part so quickly—not after having been reunited.

"Let me go with you," she said before being able to stop herself. Edward pulled the deep hood over the mask.

"If a young brunette with brown eyes is seen walking with a man in a deep hood it would be akin to screaming that Edward Cullen and Isabella Swan have entered the city," he stated. "We would be imprisoned in no time." He walked toward her.

There was no bitterness in neither of them, for even if they tried hard to hide their feelings, neither could ignore how they constantly tried to resurface.

"Please," he pleaded with her. It surprised her. Edward had never pleaded with her before. "Trust me."

The words echoed through the small alley, enveloping them both, caressing her softly as she blushed at their intensity. The faint light of the sun breaking through a soft layer of clouds cast a shadow over them, bathing them in a dull light—a mysterious and loaded aura ruling there.

"You know I do," she said softly. Her whole form fought hard against the shivers that convulsed her body. He was nearer now, and she fought hard to crane her neck so that she may stare right into his eyes; so that she might hope for a kiss.

Edward's lips parted, and his blood rushed as she spoke those words. It took every ounce of him to stop from taking her in his arms and taking those inviting lips with his own.

He went to the end of the alley instead, securing the hood once more over his head. "I will not be gone long," was the last thing he said before rounding the corner. Isabella sat down on a nearby stack of barrels, her eyes never leaving the path where he had left.

* * *

Claire kept sorting the meager vegetables amongst the loud chatter and arguments that sounded behind her. Mr. Roberts was a fickle man, a good merchant and able to sell the worst looking piece of vegetable imagined for a hefty price.

She had learned to appreciate the old man a great deal. He had taken care of her when she had wandered the streets of the lower circle. Her life had changed a great deal during the last few months. After saying her final goodbyes to the household she had once been serving in, she had taken to the palace, hoping they would offer her some work there. But she should have known better. Claire was soon cast out and with no family or connections in the city, she wandered from the luxurious upper circle all the way down to the filthy poor lower circle—a place she had vowed to never end up in.

She had always had her misconception of the place. Only the poorest of the city—the whores, thieves, and beggars graced these streets. But what Claire hadn't known was how wrong she'd been. She had misjudged the hardworking people that put so much effort into their actions in hopes of making it out. The young woman, thinking she had lost it all, had found new hope when Mr. Roberts, the grocer on Abbey street, had decided to take her in.

She had been filthy and cold, hungry and desperate. Claire was surprised he even looked her way. Others had mistaken her for a whore. However, they saw that she never quite bore herself the same way. She would cast her eyes to the ground as she waded through the muck brought on by the fancy carriages and horse hooves.

He had seen her then, not for what she looked like, but for what she was. During the following months, he had restored her faith in herself and made her see that the actions that had befallen her were never her fault.

It was, therefore, that same late noon, when most had turned back to their work, or when most were still out in the fields, that she saw him.

Claire never thought she would once more lay her eyes upon that man. When Wessport had been taken by Victoria and Jasper had fallen under her rule, Claire suspected Edward Cullen would never again return to the country. The man he served was dethroned, and he would find few friends if he ever decided to come back.

Besides, the memories his sudden appearance brought to her made her throat shut in such a disagreeable way that she thought having lost her voice forever.

How on God's green earth had that masked fiend found her?

"I seek a Miss Chester," he said with that same low and foreboding tone in his voice. Claire had not seen the mask, but she could never mistake the figure and aura that had always scared her and her friends out of their wits.

"There is no one by that name here," she answered curtly after finally having found her voice. The question of how he had found her kept invading her mind. Claire could not entirely control her body at the shock of realizing Edward Cullen was once more in Wessport. She tried to shut the door in front of him when a strong hand promptly prevented her from doing so. She feared he might recognize her.

Last Edward had seen her, she had been almost naked, sprawled on a bed after having been raped several times until she couldn't feel anything anymore. She had been void of any ability to think clearly—never realizing in that moment what had happened to her. How could he remember her, indeed? Claire prided herself on the knowledge that she did not resemble that weak woman—or so she hoped. She had not noticed her pale skin turning white and her eyes bulging out of their sockets.

He knew he had been recognized so he looked up from under the hood, letting the mask speak for itself—as it always did.

"Then the woman who stands before me must be the doppelganger of Claire Chester or I am a greater fool than I thought," he mused, the growl ever prevalent.

She squeaked, as she had when she'd first seen him and his lady enter the townhouse once belonging to the Swans. Claire tried to shut the door once more, but now Cullen stepped in, shutting it behind them.

"I think you remember me well," he began, noticing how she took a few steps back to put some distance between them.

"You should not be here!" Claire exclaimed, her lip quivering and her knees buckling under her weak frame. "If I or anyone else is seen talking to you—if the queen finds out you are here, we will be taken to the dungeons."

"Has she openly proclaimed this?"

"Any citizen of Angloa conspiring with its traitors will be shown no mercy. That is what she has proclaimed."

Edward leaned in closer. She could not discern what his expression or general emotion was now.

"Has the queen proclaimed me a traitor of Angloa?"

Claire got confused by the question. "No, but it is well known that you were loyal to King Jasper," she said in a weak voice. Oh, how she wanted that man before her gone! The memories his presence brought her had started weakening her mind already.

"You must go!" she pleaded.

He looked at her for a long while, as if thinking something over.

"I am sorry about what happened to you, I truly am," Cullen finally said. Claire was taken aback by his statement. Last time she had seen him, he had been more worried about finding Isabella Swan than the fact that she had been manhandled several times. But his sentiment rang true in her ears. "I hope you do not suffer anymore."

"I care little what you hope for," Claire dared. But she ignored her statement as she felt him tense before her. She should not have said that. She feared his temper would get the better of him. But Edward Cullen seemed completely in control of whatever he was feeling, for he remained perfectly still before her.

When he would not say more, Claire started realizing she would not be rid of him so easily. "Why are you here?" she asked, figuring it would be best to understand what he was doing in Wessport.

"I need your help."

"What? Why?"

"To get into the palace and get someone out," he said with an eerie calmness that greatly unsettled her.

Claire took more steps back, dropping the bag of vegetables that she'd been holding. "T-the king is under an armada of guards," she stammered. "You would never be able to—"

Edward cut her off before she could continue further. It was evident that she had misunderstood him. "I am not here to rescue the king," he stated.

Claire felt her brow furrow. "Then why are you here?"

"I need to get someone else out."

She looked at the bag she had dropped, much like the hopes she had once held. Claire picked it up and slung it over her shoulder. "I cannot get you into the castle. When the guards took me there I had no place. I was filthy and soiled. They wanted nothing to do with me. I hold little love for Jasper or those standing close to him. I suggest you leave now. It is my duty as a lawful citizen to inform the guards of any strange characters roaming the city. I will give you half a day to leave before I tell them anything. That is the extent of my gratitude towards you," she offered with little ceremony.

Claire bowed, as she had been accustomed to do before him and then turned her back on him, walking away from the man she had once called "my lord".

"Braun is dead," said the dark voice behind her. It was enough to make her stop dead in her tracks and drop the sack with vegetables once more. The sound of that name caused uncontrollable shivers to course through her body.

"Together with most who followed him," Cullen finished. He neared her as he continued speaking, hoping to win her over. It was all he needed. Claire may have been only a maid in his household, but he knew his staff well. Even if she had no family and few connections, she had once worked in the palace before entering his service. She knew the best ways to get in and out of it. He wouldn't even be surprised if she was familiar with the labyrinth of passages running through it.

"I only need one way in and out and I will not bother you anymore," he said as he finally came to stand by her side. "I only wish to rescue Lady Swan and then I leave Wessport forever," he assured her. Edward hoped she would see sense. "I do not aim to rescue Jasper, I know what it would cause for him—a swift execution for me and more misery for the king.

Claire looked like she was processing the whole conversation. But he saw hope when she seemed to be thinking it over. "Return here tomorrow at the same time. I need time to think this through," Claire said with a tiredness in her voice that was contagious. "And keep out of sight as much as possible. If rumor spreads in town that Cullen is returned, then it matters little who you go to—getting into the palace would be impossible."

"Thank you, Claire," he said as he left her there. Her brow furrowed once more and the once maid wondered what she had gotten herself into.

In the shadows, another figure stepped forward. "Was that Edward Cullen? In the flesh?" asked a dumbfounded Mr. Roberts.

She turned to stare at him, overcome suddenly by his voice. Claire had never expected Mr. Roberts would be listening to her private conversations. Then again, this was Wessport.

"Do you really need to ask?"

* * *

 **A/N: Hi lovely readers. Another chapter for you. I apologize for not uploading last week. I have no excuse other than not finding the time to work on this chapter before posting it. You see, before posting my chapters I re-read them to try and find any faults/see if there are some last changes I want to do to them. (Because when I re-read earlier chapters there are always faults that escape me!).**

 **Thank you so much for the reviews and welcome to any new readers. I feel like more people have found this story lately, I guess I have older readers to thank for that!**

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Since I missed posting last week I will try to post chapter 19 earlier following chapter 18.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Isabelle**


	19. Chapter 19

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 19_

 _January 7th, 1494 – Wessport_

With great effort and great pain, the girl draped the velvet robe around her bruised form. A window stood open, yet she did not perceive the winter chill.

"At least let the physician take a look at the wound on your back, Your Highness," her new confidant tried. However, Victoria would have none of it.

"It will heal in time. It is just a bruise." Yes, the wound would heal—it would be the only thing to recover.

She winced when the wet rag slid across her arms, wiping away the blood. He usually left her face—as not to maim her too much. Her husband still wanted her beautiful.

"We need to inform your uncle of thi—"

The confidant's arm was grabbed with frail hands. She dropped the blood-soaked rag as Victoria stared at her with harsh eyes. "You are new here, Laura. There are things you should learn now, lest you end up like your predecessor. You will not speak of what you see here, to no one. You will _never_ speak out against my husband or his actions toward me. And you will not tell anyone else of his behavior. Is that clear?" she hissed with such contempt that Laura had to take a step back. The teenager, still frail and thin, just growing into her adult body, possessed the tact and mind of a fully-grown woman.

"Y-yes, Your Highness," she said, bowing.

And, so, with her lips closed shut, she once more started removing the trails of any abuse that might have been inflicted by Victoria's husband. Laura helped her mistress dress for the day, making sure her long sleeves would not reveal the cuts and bruises trailing up her arms.

When the clothes were on, Victoria's secret was safely hidden. No sign whatsoever showed what really went on in her life, but the emptiness that had become ever so present within her dead gaze.

 _February 1st, 1494 – Wessport_

"Are you certain that this is what you want?" asked the older woman.

Rosalie peeked from underneath the hood. Her warm smile and rosy cheeks made her look like a little cherub. Victoria stared at her sister and wondered when she would see her next. They stood close to the main road, outside of Wessport. Winter still pressed against the land, the skies gray and burdened with ominous clouds. The snows were deep and relentless.

"The only sensible thing my father ever did before his death was to give Rosalie's custody over to me," Victoria answered. There was an emptiness within her eyes that unsettled the group of women before her. The royal escort stood a few feet behind, the roof of the palanquin already started to weigh heavy as fluffy snowflakes coated it.

"We will take good care of her," the woman said.

"I know you will, sister. I will make generous donations to your convent so that it continues that way." Her tone was harsh, as detached as possible. The nun did not take offense at how she spoke to her—as if she were inferior.

"But the day your sister comes of age we can no longer hold her. If your uncle wishes to wed her to one of his lords, Her Highness only has one possible option. That is to join us fully and take the cloth."

Victoria's hand drifted to her stomach, gliding over her womb, stifling a tremble that was about to touch her lip. "It is better than what would happen to her otherwise," she said. It was only then that the nun noticed the fading bruise on the left side of her neck as Victoria looked away. She knew there was little to be said that would alleviate the suffering that the young princess was going through.

Victoria turned to Rosalie, looking into those clear eyes and smiling rosy cheeks. This was her last true friend and she had to leave Wessport, in order to be safe. Victoria walked up to her, kneeling by her side. "Are you really sending me away?" Rosalie asked, not really understanding what was happening. The nine-year-old braved on, not wanting her sister to see her cry. She feared Victoria did so because she did not love her. Rosalie wondered if Victoria blamed her for their mother's death.

"I am doing it for you, Rosalie. The nuns will take care of you. You will go south, where the winters are not as rough, where there are white beaches and an abundance of sweet fruits. You will have more fun than you ever had here," Victoria said as she pushed a lock of hair away from her sister's face.

"But I will be away from you."

"You will return someday, I promise. And when you come back to Wessport, it will be a better city…" _And there will be better people here_ , she thought.

"Like when father was alive?"

"Better, Rosalie." Victoria straightened. She nodded for the nun to take her sister.

"Come child. The journey is long and arduous."

Rosalie walked with the woman in white and black and turned away, watching her sister, backed by the royal escort and the walls that framed Wessport. In the distance, she saw the palace she had once lived in. It would take some time before Rosalie truly understood what her sister had done for her—what she had saved her from.

 _April 23rd, 1503 – Sorossa_

William awoke to the cries once more. It was early morning. His mother took to bed early this time of year. Her nightmares reoccurred more around his birthday as if the date reminded her of some horror.

The young boy sometimes wondered if his father had done something truly horrible to her whenever he saw the desolate look in her eyes.

He got out of bed. Apparently, that man—Thomas, was to visit them today. The strange old man was kind to him, he gave him presents. But they were presents William did not appreciate. What was he to do with dolls? He hated the secrecy, but he kept his mouth firmly shut because he knew that they all hid something important.

As morning progressed, a carriage arrived. He was dressed in a patched-up dress and his long hair was put up in an intricate bun. There had been times when William wished he would take a knife and shave it all off. He hated that he looked like a girl. Even the children at the nearby village thought he was a girl. All but one of his friends—Matilda, she was nice. He had slipped up one day and told her his secret. She had promised to keep quiet about it and for once, William was treated correctly. He ran around with Matilda in the forest and they played with swords and wrestled.

He watched as the man, Thomas, stepped out of the carriage. His silver goatee was neatly trimmed, and he bore expensive clothes.

They had all gathered on the porch, the whole household lined up to receive him. William stood next to his mother, feeling uncomfortable in the restricting dress. "Remember to curtsy this time," his mother whispered as Athar neared. William grabbed the fabric with his fists and squeezed. As Athar came to greet them, the women curtsied while the men bowed.

"Mr. White, we are pleased that you could come," Leonore said as she smiled.

"The pleasure is mine, Andreia," Thomas responded. "And I see that your lovely daughter, Wilma, keeps on growing," he smiled, going to greet William.

He curtsied and looked down. Now came the embarrassment of receiving a gift from the old man. William wondered if it would be another doll or a new dress this time. Thomas motioned for a servant to come.

"I have something for you," he smiled. He grabbed something wrapped in red velvet. It peeked William's interest. The wrapped object looked nothing like a doll or a dress. Leonore stared in silent anxiety at the exchange, hoping William would just accept the gift this time and not throw it away like last.

"I know it is still a bit early for your birthday. But you will be ten in a week, my dear. And since you didn't appreciate my last gift, I have learned not to presume too much about you. I had this especially made for you," he said as he unwrapped the gift.

William's eyes lit up like the brightest stars in the night sky as a small dagger was revealed. "Perhaps you have grown too old for dolls and dresses," the old man said.

William took the small dagger. It was nothing spectacular. It was a straight dagger, the tip ending in a long point and the sides sharpened. It was so polished that he could see his own face reflected in the metal. The hilt was simple with black leather wrapped around it to offer a better grip.

"Is this really for me?" he asked, astonished.

"Be careful with it. A weapon is not a toy."

William felt the weight of the dagger in his hand and a large smile split his face. "What do we say to Thomas?" Leonore added in.

"Thank you, Mr. White," he said and then ran off. He just had to show it to Matilda.

When he disappeared between the trees, Athar let out a chuckle. "She has her father's spirits already."

"Come with me, my lord," Leonore said sharply.

"It is Mr. White here," Athar said as he looked around. "We never know who could be listening.

"Very well, Mr. White. Let us step inside. I am certain you are hungry after such a long journey."

"That I am."

Both walked in, followed by Claudine. The rest of the servants went back to doing their chores. Their current cottage was much ampler than the last. They had just arrived a few months ago, just as winter had ended. Claudine now had her own room. But Leonore and William still slept in the same chamber. They had a small parlor that served as their dining room as well. Leonore and Claudine only ever entertained Lord Athar whenever he visited—which wasn't often.

"I hope you like this place better than the last," Athar said as he sat down at the rustic wooden table.

"We do, Mr. White. Lord Saxton has been most generous with us," Claudine said. A maid stepped in and placed some wine and cold cuts in front of them.

"It is nice to see her growing so fast," Athar smiled as he reached for a cup and poured himself a glass.

Leonore's mouth was in a thin line. "There is something I've been meaning to speak to you about," she started. The young woman did not really know how to best deliver her thoughts.

Athar sensed the seriousness in her tone. "Indeed?"

"The years are going by faster and faster. My family is finally in a position where they could receive us. I wish to return to France," she said.

"But you are safe here, Magnus is dead, I am once more in court. Nothing will happen to you now."

"But we still keep this secrecy."

"Because Rebecca Fell still lives," he said. "And while she is not regent, she still holds too much power. She has connections in France—"

"I want to see my family again, my lord. I have a young brother now, Francis. I wish to meet him, and my father. It was ages ago since I spoke my language," Leonore lamented. "And I know Claudine misses it too," she said while looking at her friend. Claudine nodded.

Athar sighed and leaned back in the chair. "If that is what you wish, then there is little I can do to keep you. I know, ten years ago, I was eager to see your offspring on the throne. But I am certain Jasper will be a good ruler if we could get him away from his mother."

"Exactly, so Wilma needn't be involved in this anymore. Her cousin will be the ruler Angloa needs—"

Leonore was cut off by a strong wail as William entered the room. When the mother saw blood coming from her child's left hand she darted from her chair. "What happened?" she asked as she took his small hand in hers.

"I was just showing Matilda my new knife, but she wouldn't hand it back to me, so we fought, and the blade caught on my hand," he sniveled.

Leonore got down on her knees and kissed his tear ridden face. "It is just a scratch, my sweet." Athar kneeled next to them and a gentle smile spread on his lips.

"I trust you will keep a better eye on that blade now," he said. Athar took out a handkerchief and wiped away the blood. The swirling pattern trailing along the back of his hand was minor and would most likely not leave too great of a scar. "I am certain your mother will have it cleaned in no-time." Leonore gave him a small nod and took William out of the room.

Athar turned to Claudine while Leonore took care of William. "I will speak with Lord Saxton and we will see to it that you get away from Angloa." Claudine felt her heart swell in her chest. She would be home soon, away from this horrible and foreign land. And she would be able to live as a proud Frenchwoman once more.

* * *

 _May 10th, 1520 - Wessport_

She kept the hood low over her face—the fewer who saw her, the better. Isabella trekked the muddy streets of the middle circle, keeping to herself. If you asked any of the present citizens about the woman dressed in simple clothes, keeping her head bent to the ground, they would say little of her. Never in a lifetime would they think to point out that she was noble, that she had once held the title of a lady.

Isabella blended into the masses as if she had always been a part of them. She ignored the increasing number of beggars lining the streets. She ignored how people turned away in fear as a patrol of soldiers passed by. It seemed Victoria Fell had only brought on more misery. Jasper was but a distant memory now.

The new queen ruled with an iron fist. Some children bumped into her and Isabella felt a small pair of hands quickly searching the folds of her skirt for something of value. She stopped and stared at the child when it realized it had been caught. Quicker than lightning he ran for an alley, never looking back.

Isabella finally reached the inn and got a room for her and Edward under the pseudonyms he had given her. She discarded the hood and sat down on the small bed, beginning her wait.

The hours dragged on, yet Isabella did not dare to move away from that solitary space. Whenever she heard footsteps outside of her door her heart would jump in her chest. She would think that Edward had been found out and taken to the dungeons—and that she was soon to follow him.

As the day grew to its end, the streets became more desolate. Wessport, unlike Constantinople, seemed to die down with the sun. This was not the same life in the capital that she had known east.

The young woman played with the wax of the only lit candle in the room as night drew its dark blanket over the sky.

Still no Edward.

Isabella knew worrying would do her no good. Zoráida's knife clung to her hip and she positioned herself on a chair close to the door, barring it so that no unwelcomed guest might enter.

She never felt herself give way to slumber, but when the rattling of a handle echoed in the room, her head propped up in alerted confusion.

The room was black—she could see nothing. The wax candle had long since burned down. The door handle rattled louder, and her breath caught in her chest.

Isabella unsheathed the Damascus steel and waited patiently. She slowly removed the chair and waited for the intruder to enter, thinking she would lay there and accept her face. As soon as a dark figure stepped inside the threshold, she flung all her weight at it.

Both twisted so that they landed on the bed, putting stress on the thin legs that supported it. It screamed and creaked under their joined weight. She rose her arm, ready to strike before it was too late. Isabella could already feel the stranger shift so that he was straddling her, thus holding her down.

She struck out and felt the metal come into contact with clothing. A whoosh and a sharp hiss told her she had managed to wound him.

"Isabella," the dark voice whispered in confusion and anger. "It's me!"

He caught her hand holding the blade and her other as well, placing both above her head. Her eyes adjusted enough to see the outline of a figure—a black shadow defining itself against the surrounding darkness.

She let out a breath, letting the tension wash away. "You startled me," she whispered back. Isabella was afraid to move, afraid what might happen if she did. For now, the young woman realized in what position they found themselves in and her cheeks flushed. She thanked the shielding darkness.

His breath was hot against her ear, closer than before. "Obviously," he murmured. The tone of his voice caused involuntary shivers in her and even Edward noticed them.

"You can release me now," she said after a moment's silence. When no answer came Isabella tried to wriggle free out of his grip.

He fought against every fiber in his body and got off her. Fumbling blindly in the darkness, he found another wax candle, hidden behind a small shelf near the bed. Edward lit it, once more bringing light into the room. He went to shut the windows and turned to face her.

Isabella's face was flushed as she sat up on the bed. There was nothing else he wanted to do than cast it all aside just to jump into that bed with her.

"Did you find a way into the palace?" she asked. Her eyes still regarded his face, still examining every minuscule detail of it as he discarded the mask.

"Tomorrow we shall see," he said without pause. When she offered no response in return he stared at the blanket that had fallen to the floor.

"I will sleep there tonight," he said pointing. Isabella looked down and then at him. Her chocolate brown eyes met up with his forest greens and her lips turned into a thin line. She would not ask why he insisted on distancing himself from her, just as she would not drop her own wall and invite him to her bed.

She nodded, turning to lay down once more, her back turned against him.

 _May 11th, Wessport_

Isabella clutched the shawl tighter around her head as both she and Edward followed the short woman. Claire had met them that morning with few words to offer.

The moment Isabella saw her, she recognized the young woman. She saw in her eyes such strange emptiness that the brunette did not dare ask how she had faired since they last saw each other.

"I will lead you to a small door that takes you into the chapel of the palace. The rest is up to you," she had said.

Edward had not liked the odds, but he understood that the more they lingered in Wessport, the greater the risk of being discovered.

They were brought to the lower east side of the palace and, removing the dead bushes and growing greenery, Claire showed them a secret door, almost embedded in the lower wall. Had she not shown it to them, they would never have seen it.

"I leave you here," she spat, looking around and making sure they had not been followed. Edward gave a curt nod of thanks while Isabella took Claire's hands in her own.

"I wish you the best, Claire," was all Isabella could offer. She half expected her old maid to snap back at her, but received no such words. Only the small shook of a head accompanied by a neutral face.

The maid left them as the couple stared at the dark hallway that awaited them. True fear gripped her for the first time since arriving in Wessport. Two hands came to rest on her shoulders.

"Isabella, you do not have to come with me. Waiting by the harbor would still be the best thing to do," he murmured. She looked into his eyes and knew he was frowning behind his mask.

"No," was all she said. "I will not leave you." She wanted to add that it was because she would not wish him to fall in that infernal place. And she wanted to be there when he rescued her mother.

He gave her a stiff nod and took her hand, leading her into the Lion's Den.

Their footsteps echoed in the tight space and Edward had to bend so that he might move forward. Several roots slithered along the uneven ground like snakes, making them lose their footing several times. But whenever she fell, he was there to catch her. And whenever he stumbled, she was by his side.

After a while, the passage cleared up, the roots disappeared, and the ground was replaced by an even pathway—much like the hidden passages Edward had used to help Jasper.

Sneaking through desolate corridors and hoping the sound of their uneven breaths would not give them away seemed endless. All the while, Edward kept an eye on the lookout.

The palace had grown different. As they snuck through the corridors, both Edward and Isabella noted the absence of people. Where before there would always be at least a few people strolling along the chilled hallways during winter, now there was nothing, only the eerie flicker of torches as they moved forth.

"It is too quiet," Isabella said in a breathless whisper after a while. They had gone in blind—not knowing exactly where her mother could be kept. Asking someone had been too dangerous and Claire had no intel on Renée's whereabouts.

He stopped in his tracks, listening as something in his mind screamed at him to turn around.

"Isabella, we need to get out of here," Edward said after a moment's pause. He had gone through his whole life trusting his most primal instincts. It mattered little how much he had studied in the art of battle and strategy. In the end, it was what his gut told him that got him through the day. Even Sofia admitted he should follow his instincts. It was what had gotten them out alive of Constantinople, what had helped him win the battle for Angloa against the English.

She turned to look at him in what he could only describe as a desperate acceptance. Isabella understood something was wrong as well. But with that realization, she comprehended that there was no room to rescue her mother. With time constantly breathing down their necks, they never had time to plan their rescue mission.

Footsteps sounded in one end of the hallway; the sound bouncing off the wall creating an eerie chant. He dragged her to one of the doorways, pushing himself against her and hoped they would not be spotted. Edward was thankful for his dark garb and held his breath as the footsteps neared. Through their closeness, he felt her heartbeat increase and her breaths grow shallow with anticipation. Her hands clung to the front of his doublet as he brought the black cape around them both, trying to shield as much of her as possible.

As the steps neared, the increase of the butterflies in their stomachs seemed inevitable. Isabella shut her eyes and waited for their discovery. The seconds grew to agonizing minutes and the sound of the steps reached them only to die away. There was a slight moment where she thought Edward's heart had stopped—probably thinking this was the moment of their discovery. She buried her face in the folds of his fabric and drank in the scent of him; sandalwood, leather, and pine.

They stood there for longer than they cared to admit, and it was only when a gloved hand came to gently brush a lock of hair away from her cheek, that she looked up to meet his eyes. "That was too close," was all that she managed to say. Isabella realized the situation they found themselves in was dangerous for the first time.

"We have to get out of here—you have to get out of here. I will keep looking, but I cannot have you come with a clear conscience—"

"No, Edward…" she trailed off, her heart clenching and her throat closing up. "I will not risk you getting captured. We have spent too much time away from each other as it is." Realizing that she chose to abandon her mother was probably the hardest blow to her and it was visible on her features.

"There is something off, something wrong. I think they know we are here," he whispered in her ear.

Just as he had said those words, more steps started emerging from the darkness at the end of the corridor. They did not take their chances this time and darted in the other direction. It was only after a while that they arrived at a familiar sight. Isabella's eyes darted to the oxidized blood on the floor. It seemed the maids of the palace had not been able to clean all of Linahan's blood away from that fateful night.

As she saw the shadow of the once massive puddle that had spread on the cold stone floor, she remembered the empty look in his eyes as he passed. It had looked so peaceful in comparison to Braun's passing. His death had been agonizing, fear had spread across his features as he lost grip over life.

They were outside of their old chambers. "It will be too obvious to enter here," she whispered to Edward's back.

"If anything, this will be the last place they will think to look for us."

"But do you really suspect they know we are here?"

He turned to her, his hand resting on the door, waiting to push it open. "We trusted in people we don't really know. There is a feeling I cannot describe that haunts me as we stalk these corridors. I know they are expecting someone because they are taking precautions. They might not be expecting _us_ , but they are expecting someone," he said with his usual brooding voice.

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed the door open. It sighed as the cold air from inside hit them head-on. Isabella stepped into the familiar room and felt an odd feeling overcome her—as if she was once more looking into the far-off past. To think it had only been a few months since being there did not match up with her mind.

The room was dark, only the faint silver beams of the moon filtered through the windows. The fireplace stood dark and cold—it looked completely abandoned. Edward motioned for her to wait as he inspected each nook and cranny of the living space, going to search each chamber as well.

There was no one.

"We are in the clear here," he said and turned to face her. "Now we need to think of a way to leave here without getting caught. I will keep looking for your mother, but you need to go, Isabella. Once I get you both to safety, we sail for Spain and all of this will be behind you—"

"That easy, is it?" she cut him off. He had brought up a subject that managed to touch her nerves more than she cared to admit. The revelation of who he was had not bothered her, only astonished her. But the fact that he so easily would drop them off at his first convenience made her heart sink in her chest.

"There is something that has been bothering you," he deadpanned after the tense silence.

"I am not the only one who has been distant. Ever since you—" she pointed at the mask, "Well, ever since the ship, I thought things would be even better between us. But how could it be that you crossed an ocean for me only to then speak of leaving me again so soon?"

She did not mask the hurt in her voice. She did not mask the utter betrayal she felt done by him. Edward's mouth turned into a thin line as he loomed over her from whence he stood. His eyes widened and, had she seen his face, she could have sworn confusion would have been one of the emotions displayed on it. "That is what you have been sulking over?"

"Sulking is not the right word, Edward. We spoke that night in the cabin with such sincerity I never thought possible between us only to have you slip away from me the following day," she nearly exclaimed, taking care in guarding the tone in her voice. Her many frustrations from the last few months started taking claim within her and she projected them toward Edward, soon realizing that it was not entirely fair to treat him thus.

"This is not the time and place to—"

"And when will it be? When you leave me in Toledo or on the ship going there?" She crossed the short distance between them so that she might clearly see his eyes. "Let me know why you so ceremoniously just cast me to the side—"

"Because I fear you, Isabella," he said with ardor in his voice, the tone raising slightly. Edward had never screamed at her, never raised his voice at her. This was the first time he put some force behind his words and it managed to silence her and more. She lost her train of thought as she stood there before him with her mouth left hanging mid-sentence.

"What?" She could not believe what she was hearing.

He turned from her and she could hear a low curse escape him in a whisper. "I—these months going after you, not knowing if you were dead or alive, were the worst months of my life. And when I saw Braun holding that knife to your throat— _because of his hate for me_ , I realized that I've brought nothing but danger into your life. I've put your life on the line countless times ever since our return to Wessport. And now," he stared at her with burning eyes and Isabella grew wary of the raw emotion displayed in them. "Now the shift of power has turned this country unstable. I could never return here, and I would not wish an uncertain life for you—it is a life you are not used to, wandering around from town to town, country to country. It is less than you deserve," he finally said in a whisper and her lip trembled.

"I never thought—" She had no words. What could she say? Edward had never been vocal about much in his life. But, lately, he seemed to open up more and more to her.

He let out a sad chuckle. "I thought you had distanced yourself from me because you despised who I truly was, what I kept from you for so long. I never thought this would be the real reason."

"Edward, I—"

She never finished her sentence as she saw him tense up. The hairs on the back of her neck rose she knew then that they were being watched. Something deep and primal within her was battling the age-old question of fight or flight. She saw in Edward's stance that he had already made his choice. He was rooted in the ground and his hand went for his sword and knife in a flash as he bared his teeth in a low animalistic growl.

"How beautiful," came a cynical voice from one dark corner. Both knew that voice as out from the shadows stepped Alistair. "Would any of us truly know dear Edward Cullen and Isabella Swan would end up this in love?" he smirked. But he received little attention. Edward looked around, expecting more to step out from the shadows.

"It's just me," Alistair said with a haughty sneer. "Just the three of us here. While the rest thought to look for you in the passageways, I actually used my brains."

"So, you knew we were coming," Edward said through gritted teeth. He shouldn't have expected any less, but the fact that he had so easily stepped into the trap was a serious blow to his pride.

"Do you really think it would have been that easy otherwise? You shouldn't have trusted that maid, Cullen—she sold you out as soon as she had the chance." Isabella stifled a sob, feeling utterly betrayed. But she kept her stoic mask of indifference on place.

"And how much did you give her? Thirty pieces of silver?" she spat, stepping out from behind Edward. There was no use in hiding.

Alistair only gave her a shrug. "She has gone feisty since Lord Braun took her away. You should teach your woman some respect, Cullen." The growl that followed made Alistair take a hesitant step back. He saw the murderous look in Edward's eyes and his own hand went to the pistol he'd hid within the folds of his cape. He took aim at Isabella and cocked the gun.

"One move against me and she dies," he said with cold calculation. Edward froze, moving to stand in front of her whereby Alistair produced another pistol, aiming it at him. "I've two shots, Cullen. You might take the first one, but she takes the last one. I warn you, I've got good aim."

Edward dropped his weapons. Isabella fought against the rising wave of nausea. It was over. They had stormed into the palace without much thought and they had lost. Alistair had heard their conversation, he knew how much she meant to Edward and he expertly used that against the masked man. The smile that spread on the villain's features made her want to stick her knife in between his ribs.

"There is someone most eager to meet you, Cullen. Although I cannot see why," Alistair said, motioning them to go to the door. Edward moved with reluctance and felt the wood heavy as he opened it. The dried blood in the hallway met them and told the couple of what would eventually await them. He snuck a glance at Isabella and found her face a frozen mask of emptiness. But, in her eyes, he perceived the same terror, anger, and fright that coursed through his veins.

"Keep moving or I shoot!" drawled the voice behind them. All Edward could do was to place a comforting hand on her shoulder and lead her out of their old chambers.

* * *

When Edward Cullen and Isabella Swan entered the Blue Room—the now throne room, many courtiers didn't know what to do.

Victoria Fell had been sitting, enjoying the grip she'd had on the throne, sipping a glass of wine as Lady Savoie stood by her side, relating a most amusing tale when she nearly choked on the ruby liquid.

Victoria Fell had never forgotten that masked general who had vanquished the English from their island. Nor had she forgotten the Count who had conquered her interest. She remembered with amusement how furious Jasper had been as news of Edward's departure reached him. Victoria could not have believed her luck. Jasper's court was still recovering from her initial attack, led by Braun when she decided to strike a second time—and it had worked.

She'd frowned at the realization that Cullen would not be there to see her glorious ascension to the throne. The whole of Wessport had been made to witness her procession from the palace to the cathedral. She had summoned all the noblemen and noblewomen in and outside of Angloa to witness her coronation.

Victoria could not believe that he now stood here before her, at the point of a gun, nonetheless.

The Angloan ambassadors, come there from other courts, crooned their necks to get a view of the masked man as whispers of his presence rose.

"How lovely, Lord Alistair! I see you bring me guests!" the queen said in a joyous tone. It did not go unnoticed by most that she held the same jovial tone and poise as her cousin had.

Alistair urged the couple forward, pushing the pistol into their backs. Theodor Glovendale stood amongst the crowd in that room, by one of the tall pillars. He fought hard against losing that neutral stoic face and show the sheer horror he felt at seeing Edward Cullen being led before the queen.

"I caught them hiding in their old apartments, Your Majesty," Alistair said with pride in his voice.

Victoria rose the glass to her lips. Lady Savoie could not take her eyes off Isabella, her lips curling into a sinister smile as she wondered what the queen would have in store for her.

There was a slight silence that followed—as if the new monarch was waiting for something. But when the room grew quiet, the fine lines on her brow deepened as she frowned.

"Edward Cullen returns," she said. Neither of them could discern the emotion held in her face. "And so does his fiancée, it seems." Victoria rose from her throne, draining the last of her wine and cast the cup into the hands of Savoie. She ceremoniously descended the steps, stepping closer and closer to her goal. Edward stood, tall and proud—he never once let his worry seep through.

"She will not kill us," he whispered in Isabella's direction.

"Why," she dared to whisper back, afraid even the faintest of her breaths would be heard by the imposing queen.

"Trust me," he whispered to her sideways.

She ended up right in front of Edward. The dark red velvet of her gown hugged her curvy figure as she stalked toward him. Edward stood immobile as a hand extended and a finger was placed under his chin, forcing it to point up and him to stare down directly into her eyes. Victoria could not ignore the disappointment as she found no fear there. In fact, it was hard finding any emotion in those endless depths. She jutted her finger and cast his chin to the side.

"Lady Renée has never ceased asking for you," she said in a warm tone, turning her intense eyes to fix Isabella with her gaze. "She has missed you terribly." Isabella could almost have believed the warmth in those eyes. But after all, she had heard about Victoria Fell, she knew not to trust that woman.

"We were told she had been taken here," the young woman said as the queen turned to stand in front of her. Victoria towered over the brunette, her smile turning into a smirk. Edward knew that Victoria had achieved her goal—she had taken Renée Swan because she wanted them there—because she knew they'd come running to Wessport.

"I feared for her safety, my sweet. Your mother has suffered due to your father, and more now, due to your hasty departure—"

"I did not go willingly with Lord Braun, Your Highness."

"Your Majesty," the older woman corrected. "I am the sole ruler of Angloa now. And I understand. What Lord Braun did to you was indeed horrible," Victoria said, looking around. "But a ruler does not choose her subjects. I never knew of the true vile nature that festered within Lord Braun. None of us did."

Isabella lowered her head in submission. "Of course, Your Majesty, I hope you will pardon my insolence."

Isabella's submissive manners seemed to agree with Victoria. Her honest smile spoke as much. But Edward knew better than to trust her. She had grown up in the palace, in court, she knew well how to play and keep on the masks.

"Alistair, you may stop pointing your pistol at them. These people are not our enemy," she said as she turned to stare at the eager lord. When he gave her a confused look, Victoria arched an eyebrow. It was more than enough to make Alistair lower the gun.

"This is a joyous day indeed! When I woke up this morning, I never imagined that I would have the _Great General_ brought to me. News of your loyalty by coming to my side shall be heard in all four corners of our island. Angloa shall know to feel safer, now that the Lion of the North is back in his rightful place."

The words echoed grandiosely in the big hall and it was then that both Isabella and Edward knew what Victoria had gained on her little play. By allowing Edward to come to Wessport by his own accord, she had managed to twist it into making it seem as if he was rallying to her side.

And there was nothing they could do but to remain silent, lest they lose their lives.

"I hear Athar has mounted quite the army down south of Raven's Grove," Edward said after her little speech. He wanted to see the reaction those words invoked in her. Would she be calm and collected like their father, or would she be hasty and impatient, like their uncle Magnus? But Victoria was indeed her father's daughter. It was almost as if she welcomed the question.

"I am determined not to leave any loose ends like my cousin did. Back in the days of my grandfather, the family of a traitor was sentenced to the same fate." As she spoke those words, she felt Edward tense up by her side. "But I am not my grandfather. I am more benevolent. I will let Athar and his followers keep their lives if they acknowledge me as their rightful ruler. Angloa shall know a time of peace and prosperity, like during the days of my father."

It did not go unbeknownst to Edward that Victoria actually seemed to believe in her own words. A spark kindled in him—maybe she really was trying to do good. He knew the world was not black and white, no one was truly good and no one was truly evil. Victoria was just as gray as the rest of them, perhaps leaning to the darker side. But she held a spark of goodness within her. He truly wanted to believe that.

"Your Majesty's words bring hope to this once broken heart," Isabella said in a thick voice. "I am too young to have ever known the days of Philip Fell—too young to have seen the darkness of Magnus' rule. I only knew the harshness of Jasper and the ax he commanded to chop off my father's head." She stepped forward to Victoria, her wide eyes staring up at the queen.

"I am determined that Your Majesty is just and true. There is only one thing I desire, only one thing that breaks my aching heart," she lamented, baring herself before the queen, before the court. "I sought the same favor with your cousin, but he never gave me what I begged him for. And now there is hope within me again."

Victoria stared down at Isabella, her eyebrows reaching her hairline as she contemplated the begging woman.

"This question plagues me night and day, in my dreams I cannot even escape it," her voice wavered and to Edward the pain in Isabella's face made his own heart ache. "My father was convicted of treason against Jasper, he was executed and now his soul cannot find peace, for he was never buried on holy ground."

"Hush child, your pleading has touched the strings of my heart. I shall have your father laid to rest, so that you may know peace," she said, taking Isabella's face between her own hands.

"Alas, Majesty, there lies the problem. How could my father have ever been a traitor, if he supposedly worked for you—the true heir to the crown?"

The hall went silent.

Victoria froze with her hands cupping Isabella's chin in a motherly fashion. Isabella had dropped down to her knees and was poised at Victoria's feet and the scene looked almost like a harmonic depiction made by one of the great Italian masters.

Edward could not fight against the smirk growing on his lips. Victoria had been caught in a corner. If Charles Swan had been proclaimed as a traitor because he had supposedly helped another aspirant to the throne—Victoria—then the charges against him were now null. If Victoria denied Charles Swan had ever helped her, then Jasper Fell had wrongly accused Charles Swan, thus making him innocent as well.

His eyes glued to Victoria's, watching her brain work at the speed of light, trying to come up with the best solution for the situation she now found herself in.

The queen let go of the young woman's chin and her face settled into a soft smile. She turned to the noblemen in the room, contemplating their expectant faces. "Indeed, Miss Swan is right. How could my cousin have been so cruel? I never conspired with anyone—much less with Charles Swan, to take the throne. The decision to overthrow my cousin only came on a short notice, when I realized other lords of the country—like Braun—had grown weary of Jasper. I have done this to prevent a civil war—my cousin would have torn this country apart to hold this throne. I aim to save it and aim to restore it to its former glory." She walked up to the throne in long strides, as if ascending the throne of heaven itself.

"Jasper Fell never showed justice, that much is clear. During his rule, innocent and true men, like Charles Swan, were executed because of my cousin's paranoia. People like Isabella Swan and her mother have suffered, and I will not see them suffer anymore. I hereby proclaim that Charles Swan was never a traitor—his name is restored to its former glory and the lands and titles that should have passed on to his next of kin, are once more given to them," she said, nodding toward Isabella. The young woman had risen from the floor.

Victoria had managed to twist the words in her favor once more. Isabella curtsied deeply, her face never showing the fear she felt. They were up against someone formidable, someone who could turn a disagreeable situation into her favor.

"Now, Miss Swan, you will want to see your mother, I believe," Victoria cooed. "And your mother's spirits will soar when she sees her child once more. I wish I could be there for your reunion. The tender connection between a daughter and her mother has always warmed my heart so. But I believe Lord Cullen and I have a lot to discuss," she lamented. It was enough for the other noblemen in the room to start leaving. Lady Savoie retired, sending a hateful glance Isabella's way.

Isabella looked at Edward. She was not about to leave him alone with the queen. But before the young woman could open her mouth, Victoria interceded. "I will not keep you two apart for long, my sweet. You shall soon be reunited with him."

Isabella turned to Edward, her mask never slipping. "I shall see you soon, Lord Cullen," she said in a stiff tone. After that, Isabella walked out with the rest of them, ignoring the looks they sent her and kept her eyes glued to the ground.

When they found themselves alone in that room, Edward wondered what was in store for him. Would she make him remove his mask? Would she make him swear her his fealty then and there? He did not know what to expect from her anymore.

The queen moved a stray red lock away from her burrowing eyes as she contemplated him. "I will not insult you, Cullen," she began with poise. "You are not a fool like the rest."

"You are good at this game, Your Majesty."

"I was taught by the best." Somehow, those words managed to sound sour and sad in his ears. Victoria had long ago cast away the mask, knowing Edward would see through her scheme. She had little to hide from him and being transparent with a man such as he would greatly be in her favor. "I meant what I said a while ago."

"I do not imagine Jasper ever wanted a civil war," Edward said in a clear voice.

"No one ever does, Cullen. I suspect you never wanted a war with the English, but it is what made you get to this point today. It is what gave you your titles and riches."

"I never fought for titles nor riches," he deadpanned.

"And I never took the throne for the power it possesses," Victoria answered back.

"Perhaps your initial intentions were good, Majesty, but that throne corrupts men. It is a heavy burden to bear and it has torn down the great men who have graced it with its presence," he said as he stifled the silence in that vast room. An echo seemed to whip through it—an echo that brought with it memories of the past. Edward stood there, in front of his own blood and wished for nothing more than to tell her who he was, to end the lies and the secrecy which had plagued him for so long.

"I know that more than anyone, Lord Cullen. I saw what it did to my father, what it did to my uncle and, lastly, to my cousin." She walked down the steps to stand face to face with him—to stand before him, not as his queen, but as his equal. "But I am no man, I am a woman and I intend to honor what my father started. Angloa will once more see a golden age."

"Perhaps she will. But at a price?"

"Everything has a price, Edward."

"Displaying heads on the streets, raising the taxes, scaring the people? Is this the price you are willing to pay?"

"Once I have taken care of Athar, things will change—"

"No! No, they will never change!" he exclaimed, trying to talk some sense into her. Victoria would have to work twice as hard to be respected in the man's world that she now lived in. "Kidnapping my fiancée's mother to get me to come here was a smart move. But that is how you have grown up, always one step ahead the rest of us. Alas, I will have no part in all of this. I intend to leave Wessport, to leave Angloa. I will not see this country destroy itself from within."

She was silent as she listened to him. "You came to our aid once, now you leave us to our fate?"

"Jasper might have been paranoid and somewhat inexperienced, but he was a good king—the rightful king. And I was loyal to him, despite his faults."

Victoria scoffed, her eyes darting to the side. "Magnus took the throne while my father was still warm on his deathbed. Magnus stole what was rightfully mine."

"Aha," Edward said. "There it is—you only seek vengeance—"

"I seek justice, Cullen. Just like Isabella Swan sought for her father." The wind rattled the windows, and both grew melancholy. "We both know you cannot leave Wessport. I can't have you running off to Lord Athar." She turned away from him. "You will stay here."

"I am not that important to warrant this treatment for you—unless there is something else to it." He feared that Victoria kept him by her side, because of his status and perhaps something else. There were only a few possibilities, and all of them were unfavorable.

It seemed Victoria had had enough of their endless banter. She could not get through to him, just as he had not managed to make her see reason. She went to sit on the throne, they were no longer equals. She was his queen and he was her vassal.

"I have declared Charles Swan innocent of treason. The only reason Jasper managed to make Isabella marry you was because she was desperate enough to reclaim her lands through you. But she is the heir to Cadherra now. I know many men want that region—Braun did."

"Did you speak such sweet words to him as well? Was that what you promised him when he did your bidding? That he would have Cadherra?"

"I was never allied with Lord Braun—"

"No more. If you are to lie to me, then I'd rather not speak more with you."

Victoria grew tense on the throne. Edward thought back to that stormy night when he'd gone to see Jasper just as Athar had been thrown into prison. It seemed history was doomed to repeat itself. "Edward Cullen, I hereby strip you of your lands and title—they are no longer yours since you are no longer to wed Isabella Swan."

His mouth went dry and Edward found himself at a loss for words. "If you will not proclaim your loyalty to me—then I cannot trust you with such a strategic territory. Worry not, I will not make you a traitor," she said. But Edward cared little if his lands and power were taken away. The fact that he was not to be wed to Isabella anymore made his heart jump all over the place.

"Isabella Swan marries whom she chooses—"

"I know you love her, just like she loves you. It saddens me to break up such a strong connection. There are few in our world that ever grow to feel such a deep attachment to anyone. But if Isabella wishes to keep Cadherra, to return to the seat of her ancestors, she will have to marry the man I choose for her."

He half expected her to give him a triumphant smirk, to chuckle with her evil intent. But Victoria seemed burdened by her choice as well. "Know that I do not want this—but you forced my hand. Being a ruler is hard, and it requires hard decisions. If I want to remain on this throne, I need your loyalty, I need to know that you will not conspire against me."

Edward bit his teeth together and never let his true emotion flicker across his eyes.

"Do not worry, I will make sure she weds someone worthy-someone as honorable and as good as you."

It was with those words that Edward understood that Victoria harbored some sort of feelings for him. The thought should have disgusted him, but all that kept ruling his mind was that he would lose Isabella—and this time there was little he could do.

* * *

 **A/N: This has been one of my favorite chapters to write. Actually, writing the dialogue between Edward and Victoria has been really interesting. I don't want to think Victoria is a complete villain, she is trying to good but failing. I feel there are many who fall down that path. Let me know what you thought about this chapter! I also want to thank the very dedicated reader who has been giving me edits and helping me with my grammar in earlier chapters-just wanted to let that reader know that it is being put to good use.**

 **And, as for everyone else, you already know how grateful I am for you reading this! This fic is not over yet, I am still working on the final chapters. But, that being said, I have started writing on the last fic in this series. Probably, within a year of starting this, it will be completed and I can sit back and relax until I want to write something else! It will be the first time I have completed something of this caliber! So excited! :D**

 **Cheers!**

 **Isabelle**


	20. Chapter 20

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 20_

 _November 30th, 1496 – Wessport_

Chills ran up and down her spine as she continued walking. Victoria made sure no one had followed her. Only she and her loyal handmaiden, Laura, were out in the shadows. They pressed along the walls of the passageway, Laura holding a torch as she led them through the murky darkness. Once they reached the door that led to her chambers she stopped. She placed an ear against the door and listened. The following seconds were agonizing. When they did not hear anyone, they opened the door and slipped inside. The portal closed behind them, hiding as if it had never existed.

"Go now, Laura, before my husband returns," Victoria urged, removing the bulky cloak. She gripped something hard in her hand and fought against the trembles that rocked her body.

"But, Your Highness—"

"Go! I do not wish him to hit you again," Victoria whispered, her eyes wandering to the door as if expecting Edgar Mayne to walk in through them at any given point.

"You know you cannot return from this. I urge you to reconsider," Laura pleaded.

"If you feel this way, then you should never have accompanied me in the first place," Victoria hissed. "Now go!" She heard footsteps in the corridor. Laura went into the room next door, fleeing to her own apartments.

Victoria turned to face her husband. She wondered if he was as drunk as always. He had been hunting the entire day and had probably spent what was left of it chasing the servant girls. She gripped the flask as the handle turned.

Victoria pushed her dark-red locks out of her face and braved on. She needed to do this. Her hand trailed down to her thigh and felt the knife, secure and tightly wrapped against her leg—hidden from sight.

In stepped Lord Mayne. He was as handsome as he was cruel. Being one of the most influential Lords of the country, he was always next to the king. He had been given the title of Grand Duke after marrying Victoria. His golden locks fell roguishly into his face and she thought his good looks only added insult to her injuries. If he had been ugly, she might have grown to hate him more. But something about him—his charm, or the way he treated her whenever he was in a good mood, almost made her forgive him. Almost.

"My dear," he said with wide arms as he stepped in to hug her. Victoria fought against a shiver. The sixteen-year-old hugged him back, trying to make it as natural as possible. But Edgar was in a good mood, so the action was not hard this time.

"I trust you had a good hunt, my love," she said and let a gentle smile grace her face. She wondered how many whores he'd had this time.

"More than good. I got a stag. We are feasting tonight," he smiled and placed a soft kiss on her plump lips.

"Good, for I have ordered to bring some of the newly arrived Madeira," the princess cooed as she went to remove his cloak. Edgar smirked as she walked around him, submissive and in her place—just as he liked it. It had taken him time to subdue the headstrong princess, but he had managed. She was growing into a woman now and he had started teaching her the hidden secrets of her body. She had succumbed to him quicker than expected and Edgar was grateful that he did not have to hit her as much as before. But, sometimes, when he felt like it, he would go at her—it helped take away from the stress of court life. Victoria was a good and loyal wife, overall. And he knew that she loved him.

"That pleases me," he said. "Very much." Edgar removed his doublet and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. "But I have some steam I need to get rid of, dear." His light gray eyes grew black as he gazed at her. Victoria's face turned white and the way she cowered away from him brought immense pleasure to him.

"My love," she began. "Are there no other ways you can release the tension?" she suggested. Her voice did not show the fear that started emerging. Edgar reached for his belt and sighed, starting to grow frustrated.

"Not tonight, I am afraid," he muttered, whacking the belt against a nearby chair. Edgar grew pleased at the loud noise it made upon impact. Victoria jumped in her place.

"Well," she said as she started putting her hair in a bun. "Let me at least pour you a drink before you get started."

Edgar barely paid her any attention while he started looking around the room for more objects to torture her with.

Victoria's hands trembled as she poured him a cup of Madeira. She took the flask and released all of its contents into the cup. The young princess hesitated, realizing what she was about to do.

"Well, where is that cup?" came an irritated voice behind her.

She grabbed the wine and went over to him. "Here it is, dear," the teenager said in an even voice. When she handed him the cup, it felt as if someone else did it, like she was not in control of her body. Victoria fought against every ounce in her to stop him from drinking the ruby liquid. But as he raised the cup to his lips, he saluted. "To us, my dear." Victoria watched him take one big gulp and her stomach dropped. Edgar's eyes narrowed as she stayed silent. "Why do you not speak? I just saluted to us, you insult me by remaining quiet?" he said and grabbed her throat. He took another sip and cast the cup away.

Victoria fought to get some air as he pushed her against the wall. She clawed at his hand while her face started turning blue. "You know what I feel about you resisting me," he growled in her ear. Edgar cast her to the side and snickered as she gasped for air. "This is too easy."

He was about to go at her again when, suddenly, Victoria had a dagger pointed at him. "You will not touch me!"

Edgar's eyebrows knitted together as he stared at her in confusion. She had not fought against him in years, she knew better. He knew she had not the strength to overpower him—thus the dagger was useless. But just as he was about to strike against her, Edgar felt a sharp pain in his chest—so sharp that it was almost paralyzing. Edgar dropped the belt and grabbed at his chest.

Victoria's horrified expression slowly waned away as she realized what was happening to him. Edgar stared at the cup and then back at her. "What have you done?!"

She lowered the dagger. "I never thought it would work this quickly, or be this effective," she said in astonishment.

"What have you done!?" he screamed, moving to strike her, but the pain increased, and Edgar dropped to his knees.

Victoria wallowed in the powerful feeling sweeping over her seeing her husband crawling on the floor. It was something she had never experienced before, and she enjoyed every second of it. "The woman I bought this poison from would not say what it was made off. The plan was to kill you slowly—in case I ever regretted my decision," she said, casting the knife away. "It seems the plan has changed."

Edgar was sweating profusely as his heart started giving out on him. "T-they will know you killed me!"

Victoria snickered. She enjoyed enormously seeing him crawling on the floor. She relished it, even more, speaking down to him. "Know what? As far as anyone is concerned, you will have died of natural causes. There will be no signs that you were ever poisoned," she sneered. "You get a swift death, which is more than you deserve." She got down to his level and took in his pain, relishing every ounce of his suffering.

"I cannot say that I will miss you much, Edgar. Our time together was far from enjoyable."

"But I thought you loved me!" he said in between breaths. Edgar cried out in pain.

"Maybe I did, once. Maybe I didn't. It was hard to tell in between your random spurts of hitting and abusing me," she murmured into his ear. "But you taught me much, Edgar—things I will have use of in the future. And your death will give me much: titles and lands that I will put to good use."

"King Magnus will wed you off to the highest bidder, just like he did when your father died."

"No, he will not. I will never again fall into this trap of marriage." Edgar fell on his back and the world started turning black. He had no strength left to speak. "Goodbye, Edgar. My final gift to you is to make sure you are remembered justly. I feel having my uncle's soldiers find you dead from overextension in a whorehouse is more than you deserve," the young princess whispered in his ear as his heart beat for the last time—the poison finally reaching it. The light went out in his eyes and Edgar Mayne was dead.

* * *

 _May 15th, 1520 – Wessport_

"Victoria's people only let me see him when in their company. I think Edward almost punched in one of their heads yesterday due to his frustration." She smiled at the memory of the guard getting what he deserved.

It was the only thing that made her smile now. To think that she had once abhorred marrying Edward. It was as distant as the thought that she had once hated her father.

Renée turned to face her daughter from the pillows. When Isabella was brought to her mother, she was alarmed to find her in a dwindling state. Since her departure, the woman's health had greatly failed to the point where she had to keep to her bed. Their possibility of escape now only narrowed as taking her mother with them could risk her life.

"Your marriage to Alistair should unsettle you more." Renée's voice was as weak as she looked. "I will not see you wed him! You will tell Edward Cullen to whisk you away from here—to bring you to your family in Spain—" she stopped herself before losing breath. Renée's head fell back in the pillows and that small amount of conversation had already drained her completely. Isabella took notice and moved to her mother's bedside, bringing a cup of clear warm water and honey to her lips.

"I will not leave you like this, mother," she said. "I lost father, I am not losing you as well."

"My sweet, your father would die a thousand deaths before he'd let you endure any of this suffering." Renée could not stifle a sob. "And I could do nothing to protect you—"

"Shh, mother. Rest now." She put away the cup and pulled the thick furs further up so that her mother might not feel the chill always clinging to the walls of the palace.

Renée tried to protest, but Isabella walked away from her. She did not wish to see her in such a state. She did not wish to see more suffering.

Isabella looked out the window, contemplating Wessport. Had she traded her tower in Constantinople for another? The young woman had decided she would take fate into her own hands. She would never marry Matthew Alistair. Whatever the queen said, she would ignore it. A thousand lands and treasure rooms filled to the brim could never give her what Edward gave her.

A knock sounded on the door and Isabella never made a move to open it. She knew they would enter anyway.

"With your permission, my lady, you have been invited to—"

"I have no wish to go anywhere. I shall remain here with my mother."

"The party insists, my lady," the voice of the guard said.

"I am sure they do." She turned around, facing the now opened door. "And who asks for me?"

The guard's eyes darted to Renée who paid attention to every detail of their conversation. "It is best you see for yourself, my lady." Isabella turned to watch her mother. She expected anything at this point. For all she knew, it could be a ploy from anyone who detested her in the palace to kill her. Linahan had met his end in these corridors—Isabella would not end up the same.

"I think not." Her mouth set in a firm line as she moved to shut the door. But the foot of the guard stopped her as he pushed his way through. "My master insists," he gritted his teeth before roughly grabbing her arm.

"You will let go of me this instant or I shall scream!" Isabella exclaimed as she tried to pull away from him. The guard looked around.

"And who will hear you?" he asked in an honest question. "Except your mother, too weak to leave her bed." She realized he was right. The guard let go of her arm. "You can either follow me by your own accord or I will carry you there personally," he stated—as if the words had been practiced before arriving.

Isabella inclined her head as if accepting. But before moving to follow him, she, in turn, took a harsh grip on his arm so that he might face her. "I will follow you. But know that if even a hair is harmed on my head, you and your master will know the wrath of Edward Cullen," she said with such conviction that the guard could not stop himself from gulping. "I see you have heard of him. Good, then I will refrain from explaining what he would do to you if he heard of this disagreeable treatment against me."

"I am just following orders, my lady," the guard tried to explain.

"You will have little else to follow when Edward Cullen is done with you. Now, take me to your master," she snapped. Renée stared with wide eyes as her daughter walked out of the room. It seemed a completely different person had taken Isabella's body ever since she had left her all those months ago in Adelton Hall.

* * *

"The world has gone mad."

Grief and melancholy struck where it should not have. The world—so vivid and plenty of colors, had grown cold and gray to him.

"I sense it will not get better, my lord," came the voice behind him. Theodor turned to gaze at Isabella. Her hair was up, her gown in muted red and auburn colors reflected the muted and downtrodden expression on her face. The chocolate eyes bore into his as if searching something.

She had grown surprised to find it was Theodor Glovendale who had summoned her. He, if anyone, should want to keep away from her. "Why am I here, my lord?"

Yes, directly to the point. Isabella had long since ceased to beat around the bush. The time for masks and witty wordplay was over. She stared at her future with little hope.

"It seems I only do favors for him." Theodor looked to the other side of his apartments. Out of the shadows stepped Edward. Isabella turned to him and put on the usual mask. She had seen him a few times during the last few days. Each time grew harder and harder. They could not show their true emotions, their true affections. Both were watched constantly, guarded by the queen who ran her palace with an iron fist.

"You are safe here," Theodor whispered before retreating out of his chambers to leave them alone.

Edward wanted to rush to her side, but Isabella held up a hand. "This is even crueler," she said, her voice breaking. "To see you, to kiss you, to hold you in my arms," the young woman fought against the trembles that shook her.

But he ignored her.

And she did not fight back.

His arms caught her in his embrace and his lips found hers in an instant. Isabella relished the feeling of his hold and breathed in the scent of pine and sandalwood. "I paid a hefty price for my father's innocence," she finally lamented against his chest.

"Think no more of it," he murmured. The deep rumble of his voice calmed her and Isabella closed her eyes. It was just them—it had always been them.

"I will never marry Alistair, Edward," she said as big droplets ran silently down her cheeks. Her determination that mixed with her anger rattled him. "We need to get away from here."

"I will not ask that of Theodor. He is being watched as well. I suspect Victoria holds little faith in his loyalty—Athar is his blood, after all."

Her trembles grew more violent as she fought against the tears. Isabella never wanted him to see her cry, but not even the mask Melike had crafted could remain in place now. "Then do not let me go, Edward," she cried into his arms. "Hold me, for this might be the last time that you do!"

Isabella kept her mouth from speaking more. She would not tell him what she would do to Alistair on their wedding night. She would not tell him how she planned for Zoráida's knife to find the blackguards empty heart and puncture it. Isabella would see him die.

Suddenly she caught herself.

How could she wish death on a man she barely knew? The idea that she was as selfless and unfeeling as Braun suddenly engrained itself in her mind. She now shuddered because of something else.

Edward pushed her at arm's length. "Listen very carefully to me. The queen has decided to put some her faith in me. The fact that I haven't challenged Alistair to another duel makes her think that I am willing to submit to her." His eyes searched to find hers. The green depths of the forest calmed the raging chocolate brown with their nurturing presence. But a fire soon invaded the dark woods of his orbs as his own emotions took over. "But I will find a way—a way to take you from this wretched place. We leave Angloa, never to return."

"Together?"

His lips pulled into a soft smile and a gloved thumb trailed across her cheek, wiping away the tears. She saw something had changed within him. Had the prospect of losing her forever, or to another man, made Edward Cullen see sense at last? Indeed, it seemed so.

"Together," he answered.

 _May 16th_

Edward wondered to himself how long it had been since stepping foot in the Assembly room. The circular room was as foreign to him as the woman that now sat in it. She had taken what had once been Jasper's place. The queen read a document, her brow in a constant frown as her eyes glanced at the words.

He had been brought to her a few moments prior, but she had made no move to acknowledge his presence. Edward knew the game she was playing. And he would not be the one to make the first move. He could be patient when the time called for it.

The day was bright and the sun shone through the frail windows with great force. Summer had claimed Angloa with a mighty sweep, the lasts signs of winter were gone—the frost of the nights had given way to the dew. The morning fog did still bring the piercing chill that burrowed its way deep into the people's bones. But it did not last when the sun rose in the east, casting its warm rays over the country. Even so, it was as if Angloa still remained in the sleep of winter, the rule of its new sovereign would not allow the people to bask and appreciate the warmth and light that now came their way.

"I heard from someone that you met Miss Swan in Lord Glovendale's apartments." Her voice burst through the midday tranquility like a needle piercing a frail piece of parchment.

Edward knew there was no reason for denying it. "Indeed. I had Lord Glovendale make the arrangements."

"My curiosity does not lie with whom made the arrangements," she said in a sarcastic tone. Victoria put the papers away and rose from her chair. Today she bore a crown on her head—the same crown Jasper had been wearing at times when he had ruled Angloa—the same crown he had thrown Edward's way that stormy night, all those months ago. "I want to trust you, Cullen, I really do." She no longer called him _lord_. No one did. The loss of his title and lands had spread like wildfire, but it never bothered him. What he truly had lost was more important than any old piece of land, any castle or any gold in all the kingdoms of the world.

"You have condemned Miss Swan to a life she never chose. The last thing you can allow us is a final goodbye before you hand her over."

"Condemned her? I have saved her, Cullen. There were some amongst my advisors who wanted both of you charged with treason and executed. I spoke up for you," the queen said with a passionate voice.

"We both know that those advisors are only decorative. This room—" he made a sweeping gesture. "Does no longer serve its purpose. There are no longer royal advisors, only people who do your bidding."

"Because I will not have another monarchy where weak men rule Angloa. The lords have squabbled amongst themselves for years and years. The only right thing my cousin did was to try to remove power from them. An absolute monarch is the way of the future." Her words silenced him.

"I never had a mind for politics, Your Majesty," was all that he offered her in a brusque tone. "Nor any ambition."

"Which is why I want to put my trust in you. I spoke with Lord Glovendale. He and I had a very _intimate_ conversation. He was more than willing to divulge the extent of your friendship after some persuasion." Edward could already imagine the methods the queen had used to get Glovendale to talk. "He told me you refused to seek out Lord Athar when you had the chance. The fact that you wanted to leave Miss Swan and her mother in Spain has done you good, Cullen. When the time comes, I might even consider using you as one of my Generals—if we ever come into open conflict with Lord Athar and General Fawkes' forces."

"Is that why you brought me here? Because you hoped that I might one day lead an army against the rebels?" he scoffed. But before he could continue, Victoria cut him off.

"I know you pride yourself on your honor—an annoying habit that has given you more grief than joy. But, if you stay in Wessport under my command, you will stay close to Isabella Swan. Matrimony doesn't have to be the only way you can love someone. She can still be yours. Alistair is gullible, he only cares about the lands and riches he will receive. I am offering you a chance at happiness—"

"You insult both her and me," he snapped with such a malicious tremor that Victoria retreated in her chair. The green eyes darkened as he stepped forth. "I will never defile her with such actions, never soil her good name because of my own petty wants. You may have won the crown, but now you will find yourself alone."

Victoria regained her composure and the look in her eyes unsettled him. After his show of rage, the hopeful intimidation he'd wanted present in her eyes had instead resulted in something else. Edward saw something akin to lust and he had to turn away when she neared him. "And I will not linger so that you may use me as your own personal pet," he growled. The smirk that now graced her lips grew wider.

She neared him enough to touch him. Victoria's hand trailed across his back as she walked up to face him. The long nails trailed across the front of his chest until her face stopped only a few inches away from his head. "I would never force you," she whispered in his covered ear. Her face inched closer to his and Edward was about to push her aside when her next words stopped him.

"Don't you want to speak with my dear cousin?" She knew she'd gotten his full attention when his eyes widened. "I know you have no ambition to whisk him away from here. But what would you do if I allowed you to see him down in the dungeons? Would that be enough?" Her hand traveled south and Victoria's fingers found what they were looking for. Her smirk turned into a full-on smile as she started stroking him through his hoses, her eyes growing hungry and her lips going in for a kiss. All she heard was a low growl before being pushed against the wall, Edward's frame squeezing her against the hard stone. Her eyes lit up with expectation.

"You have no idea what you're wishing for, _Majesty,_ " he snapped in her ear, the voice low and dangerous. He removed himself from her and promptly turned away, fighting hard not to break anything on his way out—disgusted at her behavior. Once Edward had left the room, he placed his forehead against the cool stone, fighting against his sister's nauseating behavior towards him.

* * *

The hollow echo of the chapel's church bells sounded throughout the desolate corridors of the palace. Winter seemed to hold on to whatever it could. Its gloomy presence had yet to leave the interior of the palace.

Rosalie stroked the rosary and kept her head bent. This was how she had survived ever since her father's death—by keeping silent and out of sight. And this was how she would survive once again.

The lone woman stared at the cross and kept begging for the Lord to take her away from the nightmare. She was certain she suffered because of her sins that had brought her into this word. Rosalie's birth had killed her own mother. Not a day went by where she did not remind herself of that. Victoria, her sister, had always told her that it was not her fault. But Rosalie could never forgive herself. She hoped that by living a pious life she would repay the gift her mother had given her. Rosalie wanted to be good and kind, she wanted to be everything Victoria was not. She had turned a blind eye to what her own blood had become—a slave to earthly pleasures; greed, lust, and power.

Rosalie had been young when her father died, but she remembered him. She remembered his kindness, and the love he held for her. The princess thought she would never again know such love—especially not from her sister. She knew what Victoria could be capable of—maybe her reasoning was pure, but the way she had gone about reclaiming the throne had invoked such horror in her younger sister that Rosalie would never quite view the queen the same way.

Wessport was the city of secrets. Its walls held the burden of many enigmas. But Rosalie was certain few knew as much as she did. Rosalie was certain a disastrous war would break out if she ever revealed all she knew. The dirt she had on the rulers of Angloa was enough to make them flee for their lives—those who still lived, of course.

She chastised herself once more. She had seen and heard much within those burdened hallways of the palace. And she had kept her mouth shut.

Another presence entered the chapel, and her eyes drifted from the cross to the light that spilled into the room. The faint wind made the candlelight flicker, dancing away from the fresh outside air. The steady rhythm of heels clicked on the floor as the person made their way to her. Rosalie turned then from the opened door, knowing full well who it was that invaded her space.

"It is indeed strange seeing you here, Your Majesty," she murmured, her grip on the rosary tightening.

"I am your sister, Rosalie." Victoria went to sit by her side. "Please do not treat me like the rest of them do. I am still the same."

"No, you aren't." Rosalie felt the walls of the small chapel weigh heavy on her. She could not make herself look into her sister's eyes. The sister she had once known and loved was dwindling away as each day passed. "Why did you come here?"

Victoria took a while to answer. Perhaps she was thinking of something beneficial to say—something that might definitely win Rosalie over to her side. Or, perhaps, she wallowed in their situation—in the awkward tension. Maybe she lamented their now estranged relationship.

"I came to see my sister—"

"You always have a reason for your actions, Victoria. You befriended those you befriended so that you might have strong allies. You allowed Edward Cullen to remain alive because you need his presence to send a message to Lord Athar. You declared Isabella Swan was to marry Lord Alistair because you know his hold on Cadherra will weaken Lord Athar and General Fawkes."

"It seems you have been paying attention all these years. I never knew you had learned so much." Victoria kept her eyes away from the painting of the Pieta. Something about the Holy Mother and her son unnerved her—touched her soul in an eerie way. "I do what I have to, to keep Angloa safe. And right now, Alistair is the most trustworthy man under my rule. He is the only one I can trust with Cadherra."

For the first time, Rosalie turned to face Victoria, her visage contorted and twisted in pain, as if she fought hard not to burst out into tears. "How could you put that girl through so much suffering?"

"This is what ruling implies. Some people will have to suffer for the greater good."

"Was that what you told her father when he discovered your plans to overthrow Jasper? Was that what you told yourself when you conspired with Braun to take the throne? Or, perhaps, you keep telling it to yourself every night. I wonder how you sleep, sister."

"You suffer enough for the both of us." Victoria knew Rosalie had known of her secret plans for a long time, but due to the love she held for her elder sister, she had always kept her mouth firmly shut. Perhaps that was why she felt such guilt now—because she knew she might have stopped it before.

"You will suffer more than I when you realize that you sentence Isabella to the same fate you met all those years ago. Alistair will crush her just like Edgar Mayne tried to do with you."

Victoria hissed as the name of her late husband was mentioned. "I told you to never speak of him!" she exclaimed as she rose from her seat. The mere sound of his name invoked such intrusive chills in the queen that she had to hold on to the bench. "Never… again."

"You know what Alistair is—what he will do to her, just like _he_ did to you."

"Isabella is not a child. She is a woman now and her relations with Alistair will not damage her like mine did with my late husband. Isabella Swan will be able to bear children!"

Rosalie's mouth set in a thin line as she heard those words. That her sister should have been married off at such a young age—that she should have suffered and been so damaged by her husband—they never knew.

"You may not want to admit it. But you are just like her."

"I will not have this from you. I will not hear that name!" Victoria exclaimed as her eyes started filling with tears.

"Rebecca Fell is laughing from her grave because she won in the end. She managed to make you just like her!" Rosalie clutched the rosary close to herself and darted away, never wanting her sister to see the tears streaming down her face. But in doing so, she herself never saw Victoria's eyes spill over as she gripped the back of the bench. Her hand clawed so hard at the wood that she was afraid of breaking it.

"I am not like her…" Victoria murmured to herself. She turned around, staring at the cross. "I am nothing like her!" she screamed.

* * *

 **A/N: Another week, another chapter. Thank you for your kind reviews and support. If you liked this chapter, please let me know!**

 **Cheers!**

 **Isabelle**


	21. Chapter 21

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 21_

 _May 3rd, 1503 – Sorossa_

Forceful hands shook him violently as the warm quill was dragged from his freezing body. "William, wake up!" someone whispered harshly into his ear.

The young boy opened his eyes, the green orbs searching in the darkness until they focused on the frightened face of Leonore. Pearls of sweat ran down her forehead as she forced him from the bed. "Come," she hissed, dragging him away from the warmth of his sheets.

"Mother?" the child asked in fear. He had no idea what was happening or why his mother was behaving in such a way. But the young woman ignored him as she threw a makeshift shirt his way. The dull fabric scraped across his soft skin as he dragged it over his head. William's heart sped up when he heard shouts of pain sound from the front of their cottage.

In the darkness of the room, he never saw as Claudine silently entered, closing the door behind her and draping a loose shawl across his shoulders.

"They have found us," the confidant whispered in Leonore's direction. "They must know, my lady."

In the faint silver light of the moon, the young boy saw hope leave his mother's features. Horror replaced fear as her gaze shifted from Claudine to him.

"They will kill him if they find him," the frightened woman whispered in French—a language her son had never grown to know. It was a language he had never heard her speak before.

The shouts died down as someone forcefully started hitting the frail door. Leonore knew there was nowhere to run, nowhere she could hide from them. Alas, she knew there was something to be done.

"I will hold them back as long as I can, my lady!" Claudine uttered in determination, brandishing a rusty sword she had found in the shed a few weeks earlier. Her long, dark hair was tousled, and the locks fell into the glinting eyes. Leonore shook her head.

"They will not stop until they have us both," she said in French.

"Mother, what is happening?" William had never been this scared before. He had never seen such fear present in the eyes of the two women.

Leonore kneeled by her son and pushed the long hair away from his face. "You need to leave with Claudine, my sweet," the young woman said, her lips trembling as William furrowed his brow and squared his jaw.

"Why?"

A lone tear ran down the cheek of the mother who quickly wiped it away. "Because some bad men are after us—after you and I— and I will not let them take you," she growled.

Claudine caught Leonore's gaze. "My lady, I cannot leave you—" Someone had started pushing against the door to their bedroom, the hinges wailing in protest as whoever was on the other side was eager to get past the wooden boards.

"I order you, Claudine, to take my son far away from here. If they find me in this room, they will think William is hiding somewhere here with me. But if they find you, they know we will have tried to escape. Go!" she urged them.

But William would not let go of her hand. "I will not leave you!"

Leonore reached down to kiss his head, breathing in the scent of her child one last time. "Listen to me, William, I love you. Everything I have done, I have done to protect you. I hope you can understand that one day," she smiled. Claudine dragged the young boy away against his will, forcing the window open. The frisky chill of an early summer night pressed against them as they jumped out of the cottage.

Leonore turned around, the particles in the night air danced in the light of the moon. She gathered the sheets of her bed as they kept hitting her door. Just as she held the big bundle of fabric against her, the door fell.

"There, she has him!" one of them said as they caught sight of the bundle, thinking it was William.

Leonore looked up at them and her wide eyes shut as a sword bore down on her.

A scream spread through the valley as William and Claudine fled into the woods. The confidant would not let go of the young boy as he heard the last shout of his mother.

"Mother!" the boy wailed as he heard the heartwrenching scream echo through the peaceful forest. The young leaves billowed in the night breeze as Claudine dragged him further away. "William, come, we need to go!" she urged him. "They will not harm your mother, I promise." Claudine wanted to believe in the lie herself. But she suspected the assassins had been sent by Rebecca Fell—that woman would have no compassion with either of them.

The quietness that followed unsettled her so that she had to squint when gazing at the lonely cottage. Her eyes widened in wear as she spotted two figures jumping out from the window, searching fervently to find them. "We move, now!" she hissed, dragging the crying boy by his arm, ignoring his protests as they ventured further into the woodland, leaving the peaceful valley ever forgotten behind them.

The assassins soon caught wind of them, they ran as fast as their legs would carry them. Claudine was beyond herself with worry. She would never let them take William. "Where are we going?" the young boy begged. "I am tired, and I want to go back for mother!"

The confidant stopped, deciding it was due time to use her wits instead of her failing strength. A cluster of thick bushes to the side gave her an idea. Claudine listened for the running footsteps and kneeled down by William. "Listen to me now," she started as she guided him in between the thick foliage. "I need you to be very still, William. Can you do that for me?"

His wide green eyes stared back at her. Something in her gaze made William realize the gravity of the situation. He started realizing there was no chance of once more seeing his mother. The boy nodded slowly, fighting against the tremble in his lip. "I can do that," he whispered back. Claudine swiftly pushed the foliage back so that he was unseen to the naked eye. After that, she ran as far away from him as her legs could carry her, making as much sound and ruckus as possible.

Her plan seemingly worked, for the men in dark clothing passed William's hiding spot and followed her closely.

His breath was too loud, William grew paranoid that they would find him. The young boy pressed against the center of the bush, closing his eyes as he tried to shut out the rest of the world. More running footsteps passed him—each time he would hold his breath.

He didn't know how much time had passed. But once the sun came out in the sky, someone had approached the bush. William held his breath until a faint whisper assured him it was only Claudine.

"They are gone, we must leave before they return." The young boy did not ask her how she had managed to get rid of their followers. He took her hand and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Claudine knew there was a stream up ahead that they could follow—making it harder for trackers to spot their footprints.

The young woman kept her senses alert as they broke off from the tree line. But, they had moved away from the woods too late. The stream had grown into an imposing river. It was too rough to wade into. Furthermore, there was no clear access point as high and pointy cliffs elevated them from reaching the water. Claudine was about to run back to the forest when some rangers and men from the cottage ran up to them.

"No!" the Frenchwoman exclaimed as she witnessed their harsh and unfeeling faces stare at them. One raised a crossbow, aiming at the overprotective woman. The man didn't even blink as he shot her. William saw in horror as Claudine stumbled back, falling into the hefty waters.

"Get the child," one of them said. "She wanted him alive." William backed away, tears running down his eyes as he stood defenseless on the edge of the cliff. Suddenly the assassins turned on the rangers, killing them off. In the chaos, the young boy glanced at the water. He knew he had a better chance jumping into them than waiting for the clear treason within the group to be finished. One of the assassins saw him aiming for the water. But before the prince could jump, he dragged him back by his long copper hair, trying to behead him with the flick of his dagger. All he managed to do was to slash him across the throat. The blood stained his shirt and William fell back into the water, everything turning black the moment the cool liquid touched him.

 _June 3rd, 1499 – Wessport_

"Of course, uncle. You are right, as always. I honestly do not believe why the people cannot see all the good that you do for them." Victoria kept embroidering the frail linen as she listened to King Magnus' complaints. It had almost been three years since her husband's shameful death and, ever since, the princess had managed to evade another wedding.

Slowly but surely, Magnus had come to realize that Victoria would do his full bidding, as long as he did not marry her off. That meant that all the land she had access to, combined with its riches, was under his indirect rule. She was the first woman to sit on the General Assembly—soon leaving it, though, stating she had never found it as boring as then.

The princess would visit her sister twice a year, watching in awe as Rosalie grew up, resembling their mother more and more as the months progressed.

Jasper ran up to her, showing her the wooden sword that he had made earlier that day. Victoria took it from him and a smile touched her features. Rebecca Fell soon snatched the sword from the young princess. "Go on, Jasper dear, do not waste your time with your cousin," the mother cooed, glancing at the princess sideways.

As of late, the king had grown weary, the struggles of the kingdom weighing heavily on his shoulders. The only person that would truly listen to him, was his niece. "Sometimes I regret the passing of my brother too much," the king lamented as he stared into the dancing flames of the fireplace. A hollowness invaded his orbs as invasive memories resurfaced.

"I miss him too," Victoria murmured, staring at the sloppy motif she had embroidered. The princess sighed and went to look at her uncle, resting in the cushioned chair. "But he is gone now, uncle. There is nothing we can do to change that."

"He is gone," Magnus sighed. He rested his face in his hand, his lip trembling. The king regretted everything that had transpired within the last few years. As he caught a glance at his niece, he lamented what had happened to her the most.

"I was too ambitious, Victoria. Too ambitious for my own good." Whenever they were alone, Magnus found it easy to open up to her, just as Victoria did with him. She had admitted to her uncle that she had taken her husband's life—if only by accident. At first, Magnus had been furious. But when he realized that she was complying with his every wish, he grew to appreciate her.

"You have told me so uncle."

"And it ails me to have seen you suffer so." Victoria did not comment on how she had suffered far longer than he had realized. Magnus had been blind for a long time—because he had chosen it.

"All that is past us now, uncle."

"You remind me so much of your father when he was young—so much of his spirit is still within you." Victoria enjoyed that remark. Whenever they compared her to her father, she felt a twinge of pride course through her.

"I hope I remind you of him in a good way."

"The best way, believe me." The king coughed, he cleared his voice and dabbed his forehead, hoping she had not seen the pearls of sweat emerge.

"It seems your condition is worsening," Victoria stated casually as she pricked the needle into the fabric once more.

"My wife keeps feeding me this medicine of hers. It helps me sleep better, but the side effects are horrible."

Victoria arched an eyebrow. "Maybe you should refrain from taking that medicine of hers for a while."

Magnus chuckled. "She would have my head on a spike if I did so."

"Perhaps so." The young princess threw her failed embroidery into the fire, watching as it was disintegrated by the flames. "But, if you let me talk with her, I could perhaps make her see reason," she said.

"And she would listen to you?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Oh, indeed she would. I am, like she, a woman. I know how to talk with her to make her understand."

"I would be in your debt!" Magnus said. "The taste of that concoction is horrible!"

"Well, dear uncle. It would be nice to have a representative of all my assets and land in the Assembly. I know I am not wanted there myself as I am a woman. But if one of the lords would put forth my opinions and interests, without the other lords knowing it, I could more directly assist you and support you. Anonymously, of course."

"And you would have this lord side with me in every question? That could be a very good idea indeed. The other pompous fools would not look down on us as much," Magnus said to himself. "I shall ponder this question, niece. For it is a very good suggestion."

 _June 17th, 1499 – Wessport_

After what could only be described as indirect threats and bribery of several servants of the palace, Victoria had managed to switch out the brew that Rebecca had been making her husband drink each night. The princess had insisted that his wife still wanted him to take his medicine, but that she had agreed that he would take a lighter version. The king, of course, had no idea that all he was now currently drinking was a mixture of honey and rosewater. Victoria had also urged him not to discuss the matter further with his wife as she had been very hurt by his reluctance to stay healthy for him.

Magnus had agreed blindly, never realizing how the young princess had achieved her goal. Without any interaction with the queen, the princess had managed to persuade the king. He had been so pleased with her that the following day he had asked her to see him in his chambers—away from prying eyes.

Victoria now sat in front of him, waiting patiently for him to reveal if he would allow her a representative in the General Assembly.

"Everything has been taken care of," he uttered with a smile the moment Victoria had sat down. "I have your man!" Magnus exclaimed. "And I hope this will satisfy the debt I owed you. The man entrusted to represent your interests and mine in the Assembly is a very honest and honorable man. I know very few men like him."

Victoria's visage settled into a satisfied smirk. "And whom may this man be?" she asked cautiously.

Magnus cleared his voice. "Lord Oscar Braun who just arrived here a few months ago from a recent post in Constantinople. He is reclaiming his father's lands and titles and is very eager to please. I think you will find him an excellent subject."

"Indeed," Victoria smirked. "Indeed."

* * *

 _May 18th, 1520 Wessport_

He was more determined than ever to make his escape. Edward Cullen kept drumming his fingers against his thigh as he stared at the wax candles.

He was not allowed to even leave the palace—not until Isabella married Alistair. It was something else he aimed to stop. There had come a time when he could no longer accept the injustices he faced. Edward knew not to leave things in good faith and accept their outcome. He would fight for Isabella.

But how would he accomplish such a feat? Escaping the queen's clutches would not be easy. He was now within her grasp—he was her trophy. Victoria feared he would seek out Athar and the rebel lords to strike back at her. Edward, however, had no such plans. He only wished to get Isabella and Renée to safety.

The chapel was empty as always. Edward found that few people these days ever visited the eerie space. He wasn't a religious man, but the solace and tranquility the empty stone halls offered reassured him. It was one place he might keep away from the prying eyes and ears of the monarch.

But, of course, there was always someone who would stumble in. The chapel was for the inhabitants of the palace only—for those who did not wish to trek the long way to the cathedral, on the far east side of the middle ring. Although the cathedral was an impressive gothic structure—newly built a few decades earlier, it had too many visitors. And the aristocrats did not like mingling with the lower classes. Edward scoffed at the thought—pompous fools was what they were, all of them.

"At least some of us still finds amusement," came a dull, suppressed voice behind him.

He quickly rose from the bench, turning to face none other than princess Rosalie.

The princess had a hood covering her fair hair—the dull eyes bore marks of a troubled soul and her stance was dismissive, guarded against all that would invade her privacy.

"Your Highness," he said while bowing.

"Spare me such titles, please," she murmured as she slinked past him, kneeling by the altar.

He rose an eyebrow and regarded her as she bent her head in prayer. Rosalie was known for being pious, just and gentle. But he had never heard of her dismissive tone. In fact, Edward had never really known or heard much else of the younger princess. While her sister attracted all the attention, she melted into the canopy, managed to be invisible while present at the same time.

He stopped to think about her situation. Rosalie had to be as confined as he. The woman who whispered her words of sorrow to God was part of the only true family he had left. Their older sister was slowly growing mad with power and their cousin was thrown to rot in the dungeons.

"You are still here," came the irritated voice.

"Have I not the right to be here as well? This place is not only yours," he retorted, making sure that his voice was softer than usual.

Rosalie struggled to rise, biting back the pain brought on by stiff limbs. "I want to be alone."

"Is that a command, Your Highness?"

"What? I… no. I only want to be left by myself." Something troubled her, something he probably could not help her with. Rosalie stared straight at him, as if waiting for him to protest. But all Edward did was to bow deeply, thus leaving her to her thoughts. "Thank you, Lord Cullen," she said after him, watching his outlined silhouette against the open doors.

"I am not a lord anymore," he said back to her.

Perhaps he could find an ally in Rosalie—perhaps not. He knew she was loyal to her sister, even if she might openly disagree with her harsh take on ruling the country.

* * *

"Do you know why I have summoned you here?" asked the queen as she leaned back against the tall, cushioned chair. The Assembly room was filled to the brim with lords loyal to her. Edward was there as well. He had no idea why the queen had decided to bring him to such an assembly, he was not a count anymore, he had no power to boast of.

Her eyes drifted to him as if the question was directed to him. Edward remained silent and let the black mask speak for him. He would not do her bidding. Even if he could not fight his way out, he could be reluctant in his resolve.

"Cullen?" she said as her piercing eyes trailed over his form. Alistair and the other lords turned to stare at Edward as well. None of them knew why he was there. While some cared little about his presence there, others abhorred it. Alistair could not stand seeing the arrogant masked man. He took solace in that he was about to steal from Edward the thing he valued most.

"No idea, Your Majesty," came the forced and reluctant words. "I am no longer a count, so my presence here is only invasive. I came at your request," he muttered. Edward's eyes drifted to Alistair and it took every ounce of him to control his impulses. He wished to grab that man's neck and snap it in one swift movement. He would die before seeing Isabella in Alistair's arms.

"Does anyone else know?" She turned to her lords. They all remained silent. "No, of course, you don't," she muttered. Victoria rose from her seat and started prowling round in the room. She smirked as several of their eyes trailed along her lithe form, hugged by the tight velvet fabric of her dress.

"I have held on to power for this long because I've been willing to do what it takes. I have vanquished all those who opposed me. But there are still people within these walls who would see me dethroned—people who would see my _birthright_ taken from me," she stated with passion. It dawned on Edward that Victoria thought what she was doing was right.

"A spy," he confirmed. This was what he needed—this could be his ticket to freedom.

"Well then, there is nothing more to speculate about. It is obvious who it is!" Alistair looked insulted as he turned to scowl at Edward.

"It cannot be Cullen since I keep him and Miss Swan under intensive watch—for their own good, of course," the queen added with a faint chuckle. "It is someone else. That is why we are here today. You are the ones I am sure cannot have betrayed me, for one reason or another. I, therefore, propose that you find this person and the sooner the better. He has already given away crucial information to Lord Athar and his band of traitors. I do not wish for this to escalate further." Blistering eyes trailed over the group. "The one who presents me with the traitor and proof will be richly rewarded," the queen stated. All men in the room except for Edward perked up at these words. Their eyes glowed with the promise of more power and riches. This was how Victoria controlled them—through fear, money, and promise of power.

"You all may leave me now," she then ordered. The lords dispersed quickly, eager to find the spy. Edward was about to head out into the hallway when her voice managed to pierce him like an arrow. He sighed inwardly as the sultry tone came after him. "Except you, Cullen."

He knew she would want more from him. She always wanted more. Edward closed the door as the last man left, turning to face her.

Victoria Fell sat down in the chair again. "I told you that I wanted to trust in you—this is your chance to prove yourself to me, once and for all, Edward. Do this and I will knight you as well as make you my General."

"You are wasting your breath, Your Majesty. There is only one thing I want—one thing that would make me dishonor myself in such a way, and you will not give her to me."

Victoria crooned her neck. "Isabella Swan will marry Mathew Alistair. There is nothing that can change that. But there is something else I can offer you. Something I think you will like very much."

"I doubt it," he said in steely resolve. Victoria eyed the threatening man before her. He was, as always, covered head to toe in black, only those piercing eyes and lips visible. The warmth of summer had warranted for him to change to a lighter doublet, not as bulky. It showed off his fit frame more and Victoria could not help but fantasize what might hide underneath all those layers of cloth and leather. A gentle blush dusted her cheeks when her imagination ran wild.

"I thought you might like the prospect of speaking with my cousin."

The blood in his veins froze. Her words bounced off the stone walls in an echo and went right through him, provoking an eerie chill. "It seems I have your attention now," Victoria purred. "And that is all that matters."

But before she could say or do anything else, Edward shook his head. "I doubt you would let me of all people ever speak with Jasper."

He glanced at her before turning on his heel and leaving her alone in that room, firmly shutting the door to echo his anger.

 _May 19th_

Silk flowed in layers around her. The wine-colored fabrics squeezed her too much. Damask patterns in silver had been sown to outline her torso. Cuts had been made along the arms to bring the white chemise through, poofing it up. Seamstresses worked around her, taking little care of the woman herself.

A tall mirror in front of her showed a striking woman with glistening brunette locks. Her wedding dress was almost finished.

The room suffocated her. The tapestries on the walls loomed over her, the wax candles blinded her, and the carpets swallowed her.

There was a knock. Soft and subtle at first. But when none bothered to open it, it sounded again—stronger.

One of the maids let a man in a black mask enter. "Leave us," he growled once he caught sight of the beauty. It took little persuasion for the seamstresses and maids to leave.

Isabella saw Edward near her in the mirror. "The queen has allowed me to visit you," he murmured behind her.

"To torture us further," Isabella whispered back. She stepped away from the mirror, away from that ghastly sight of herself. Her voice shook as she grabbed the bureau standing to her right, lined against the wall.

Edward started reaching out, wanting to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. But he stopped himself short, not wanting to cause more agony in either of them.

He cleared his voice. "I have a plan for getting us out of here." Isabella did not answer him, thus he kept going. "Victoria has gathered the General Assembly. There is a spy in the castle and I have been tasked with finding him."

Her shoulders shook, but there was still no indication that she would speak.

"If I find this spy, maybe he can help us out of here—all of us." She remained silent. "You wouldn't have to marry Lord Alistair and I could get you and your mother to Toledo—"

The young woman turned and displayed her face to him. Edward found anger and disappointment in her eyes. "You still plan to leave me?" she spat while walking up to him. "All this time, and you still plan to leave me? What was that about _together_?"

"Look at where you are, Isabella," he retorted with a broken voice, as he pointed at the dress. "All because of me."

Her brows knitted together. "You said that going with you after leaving Angloa would not be a life I'd want. You said that wandering around from town to town, country to country was less than I deserved. But you have to stop choosing for me."

A sad smile touched her lips as the anger washed away from her eyes. "I want you by my side, that is all that matters to me. It doesn't matter if we live in a castle or in a hut—as long as we are together I will be happy."

His breath caught in his throat. "As I would be happy to have you by my side. But I could never guarantee your safety or your comfort," he lamented. And how he wanted her by his side. Edward feared to express the intense emotions and feelings she provoked in him.

"I will be safer by your side than anywhere else."

Edward's lips pulled into a smile. He had never had anyone in his life willing to cast everything aside for him. Claudine had taken care of him because it was her duty. Sofia had been by his side out of some motherly sense. But Isabella wanted to be with him, not because of his lineage or to protect him, she wanted to be with _him_ : with Edward.

"Then we shall discover the world together, you and I. I will take you places you could never have imagined before. Angloa will only be a distant memory—" Isabella shook her head at those words

She grew sadder as her smile diminished. "I would love that—to run away and leave all our troubles behind. But that cannot be now for you must stop running from your past."

He looked away from her in a hefty motion—her words augmenting the anger and confusion he had been holding toward that part of his life for so long. "My past has nothing to offer me."

Isabella placed a hand on his cheek and caressed it with her thumb. "But your future does. Your future has everything to offer you."

"You really want me by your side," he stated.

"You know I do."

"I want to be with you, Isabella. But I cannot be anywhere in Europe where someone might recognize my face. I aim to leave this continent once and for all. I should never have returned in the first place."

"No, please listen to me. I know you are confused, I know you might even be frightened. But you must face your past. Angloa is on the brink of destruction. A civil war cannot be avoided whether you stay or go—so why not help those standing for a just cause?"

"You want me to join Lord Athar."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because Angloa is my home too, because I love this land. And even if my dream would be to travel the world with you, I will not ignore this island that I hold so dear to my heart. Angloa has brought me much suffering, but it has brought me more joy than I can remember." Without knowing it, Isabella sounded very much like Zoráida had that morning Edward had been speaking with her, just before his departure from Málaga.

"I am tired of fighting their battles. I am tired of war and conflicts. I want a peaceful future with you by my side, Isabella. Because you are the only thing that matters to me." His words touched the strings of her heart.

"You came to help us once as Edward Cullen. Why can you not do so again? I am not asking you to reveal who you truly are. I am only asking that you help end this blood-feud once and for all—let it end, give Angloa the peace she deserves." She leaned in to whisper in his ear; "make this country as it once was, under your father's rule."

Edward looked down. "I am sorry Isabella. But I have seen what power does to people. Look at what it did to Victoria." He whispered in her ear as well; "I cannot fight my own _sister_."

Suddenly Isabella understood what this was all about. "I never thought you cared for her."

"I have little family left. Even if she has done these horrible things, she is still my blood. And I cannot go against her."

Her hands circled around his neck as she stepped into an embrace. "If we run away, Edward, you will be asking yourself _"what if"_ for the rest of your if you had stayed to help, what if you had spoken with Victoria?"

Edward sighed. "If you truly wish to be by my side then I will do everything in my power for it to be that way." He ignored the subject, trying to get away from it. Edward reached down for a gentle kiss then, Isabella closed her eyes and wallowed in every feeling the kiss drew out.

He broke it off after a short while, realizing that they were only torturing themselves further. But now there was something in the depths of her eyes—the promise of hope, of a better tomorrow.

"Find that spy, Edward," she sighed in his arms.

 _May 24th, 1520 – Wessport_

Edward had spent the last few days searching the hidden passageways of the castle. He figured that if a spy had to transmit messages, it was through those passages. But he had come up emptyhanded. Besides, Victoria might have thought the same thing.

The masked man walked along an empty corridor, not knowing where it would lead him. He had searched the palace meticulously, but nothing had come up. Whoever this spy was, he was good.

It was afternoon when he decided to go to the chapel for some solitude. Whenever he rounded a corner in the palace, he would always stumble on some courtiers or guards—the courtiers would not leave him alone, while the guards would start trailing after him.

The chapel was empty, as always when he walked in.

Arches, vaulted roofs, buttresses, large windows, and spires was the defining architecture there. Although it was not too large in size, its construction made it feel massive. The arches closed around those who entered like a spider's embrace. The chapel was narrow, but high in roof. The long walk led up to the altar was defined by lines settling in the stone of the walls. It gave the impression of a cage made of stone and glass. Further ahead in the nave there was a transept; an area set crosswise to it in a cruciform—just before the altar.

The windows were the most impressive, the most intricate for they were stained glass and depicted scenes from the Bible. Light filtered through in various colors and in great force. But even though those colorful beams painted the inside of the chapel, they could, for some reason, not manage to bring the full force of their light with them.

There was something unnerving about the place—as if it held some sort of sorrow; as if it was cursed.

Some chairs had been placed in rows by the altar. That was where Edward usually went. He had passed the transept, the bells of the cathedral tolled in the distance: telling the hour. The bells of the palace chapel were only in use during three occasions: a wedding, a funeral, and a crowning.

Edward let his mind be swept up by the grandeur of the rich and imposing architecture. He had barely noticed the two shadows moving around the confessionals. Perhaps he might never have done so, were it not for some object that they carried had managed to catch the light of one of the many beams filtering through the windows. It was as if the light tried to guide his attention to them. The light bounced off the object and glinted in his eyes. Edward's head snapped in their direction and his instincts made him hide from sight, easily gliding into the shadows.

He could not discern much as they huddled together, the one taller than the other. All he saw was that both wore robes of some sort. Edward was certain that one of them was a priest. But the other one he could not put his finger on, the person was too far back to be noticed.

Something was traded between them. Straining his hearing, Edward caught a word that swiftly got them his full attention: "Athar," one of them had mumbled.

As quickly as they had gathered, they dispersed: one walked to the back of the altar, while the other disappeared into the left side of the transept.

It was a moment where Edward had to decide who to follow. He went on a hunch and followed the taller person, sneaking behind them expertly, never making a sound.

There was a small door leading out of the chapel through the left side of the transept. Edward pressed against the walls as he listened to the footsteps echo while the person opened the door and softly closed it behind them. He doubled back and ran out through the main entrance, rounding the chapel until he reached that door. He wondered if this might not be the spy he had been tasked with finding.

Someone had crossed the small courtyard between the chapel and the palace and he rushed after them, surprised as he was led into the palace. Edward's senses were alert while he listened to the footsteps. The chase went on for what seemed like ages to him. They led him into the heart of the palace, and then up some stairs.

It was only then that he heard a door shut at the end of the corridor that he knew the spy to be trapped—finally. Edward moved with a slow and steady gait, his hand nearing the dagger tied securely to his belt. His heart rushed as he came to a stop in front of the door, wondering who would be behind it. He had never been in that part of the palace before.

A gloved hand brushed up against the darkened wood and he took a deep breath before knocking on it. There was movement behind it, someone rustling about, scurrying to do something before opening the door for him.

He heard the iron knob being turned, slowly, meticulously.

The door opened, a gust of air dragging with it—carrying the scent and warmth of summer. Light filtered out into the hallway.

He heard the person speak before he saw them.

"Cullen, what are you doing here?" they asked in wonder and confusion.

But for the first time in a long time, Edward found himself lacking in words. His grip around the dagger lessened as he took a step back, the eyes growing wide. "You?" he uttered in sheer surprise.

Edward Cullen stood confused and growingly coming to terms with who she was. Rosalie Fell realized then that he had figured out her secret. She grew afraid at first, wondering if he would run away then and there to report her to her sister. But after standing there a few seconds, staring at her with mouth agape, he soon entered her chamber and locked the door behind him.

* * *

 **A/N: Yet another chapter! I will try to upload chapter 22 this weekend. My goal is to have the entire fic finished by Christmas! I hope you enjoyed it, please leave a review if you did, I always appreciate it.**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	22. Chapter 22

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 22_

 _September 10th, 1499 – Wessport_

The train marched in an eerie quietness to the cathedral with the royal family walking by the coffin. Victoria kept her hands folded in front of her and her eyes on the ground as the black train of her dress spread out behind her. Red carpets had been lain on the streets of Wessport for the finer folks to step on as they marched in the funeral train from the palace to the cathedral.

Rebecca Fell marched by the coffin on the other side, her face a stiff mask. None knew what went on beyond her flickering gaze.

Magnus Fell was dead. His horse had cast him during a hunting party and the king had passed away during the night.

The shock the kingdom received was soon followed by a tension spreading across the kingdom. Jasper Fell, at the tender age of only ten years old, had succeeded his father. Magnus, knowing well he rested on his deathbed, had, with some pushing from both Victoria and Athar, finally agreed to not make Rebecca Fell regent until Jasper came of age. The regent would be the General Assembly—so that the power might not fall into the hands of only one man.

Victoria was certain it was what plagued Rebecca's mind. The young princess fought against a smirk as she wondered how much the dowager queen now worried for her own safety. Victoria knew most of her suffering was due to Rebecca; for it was she who had seen to it that she married Mayne, as well as forcing her to separate from her sister.

But, it was on his deathbed, when they were alone, that Magnus had confessed that Rebecca Fell had poisoned Victoria's father during a few months. Magnus had taken to confessing all to her to alleviate his plagued soul and conscience. It was also at that very same moment that Victoria vowed that Rebecca would not get away so easily. She would do all within her power to take down the proud queen.

The funeral was not just a final goodbye to the least loved king in the history of Angloa, but it was also a moment for reflection. All present took a good look around at the powerful noblemen and women there, knowing there had been a void of power that many would soon want to claim.

Victoria stared at the coffin, intently telling herself that she would be the one claiming that void to set right all the injustices that had been done both to her and to her father.

"You look decisive, Your Highness," came a voice behind her. Victoria did not turn as she kept walking down the corridor. The funeral had been over quickly, not even the priest wanted to spend too long saying goodbye to such a vile man as Magnus.

"There is a lot at stake now, Lord Braun," the young princess said his way. Braun caught up in her step, agreeing fully with what the woman said.

"May I perhaps be of service?" he asked. Braun had already chosen his side the moment he had entered the Assembly on her behalf.

"Indeed, you may."

 _May 11th, 1503 – Sorossa_

"Be gentle as not to wake him yet," he heard emerging from the depths of the fog. A dull pain extended across his throat and upper chest and from his parched lips there escaped a sigh. A thick blanket pulled up further across his sleeping form as Claudine watched from behind. Lady Saxton gently pushed the hair aside with the wet cloth, wiping away the sweat from the disappearing fever. The open windows let in the summer breeze—curtains billowing slowly in a graceful dance.

"How could Athar have kept this from us?" Saxton demanded in a harsh tone the moment Claudine and Lady Saxton emerged from the room.

"Because my mistress never told him. He never knew she had born a son," the Frenchwoman said back, defiantly. The Saxtons had not hesitated to take them in as she had literally come crawling to them after having spent almost a week in the woods—evading patrols.

Lord Saxton stared at the closed doors, his eyes widening in an unexplainable awe. "The heir to the throne," he murmured to himself in complete wonder.

"I aim to fulfill my mistress' wishes and deliver her son to the seat of her ancestors. He has been kept in danger for long enough. You will not reveal any of this to Lord Athar, not now."

Lady Saxton placed a gentle arm on her husband's shoulder. "The days of Magnus' cruelty are long gone, we do not need another period of uncertainty. Jasper is not his father, and he keeps showing that as the days drift past. Lord Athar has claimed a place within court and I know things will turn around if we just let them."

The aging lord squared his jaw and glanced at the closed door. "He will be under my full protection. I myself shall see to it that you are safely delivered from the country," he finally said. But both women could not fail but see the hint of regret that rested within his eyes.

 _May 12th, 1503 – Sorossa_

Claudine redressed the bandages around his throat and upper chest. "You will have a scar," she frowned. The very thought of the boy being marred was a blow to her own person—she had not been able to protect him. After having taken the arrow to the shoulder and hitting the water, the cold substance had managed to keep her awake long enough to see William haplessly fall backward and disappearing below the black depths. She had, despite the immense pain, dived after him and managed to drag them back on shore as the river grew calmer downstream. It was then that she had noticed the wound across his throat. Claudine realized there was only one place left to go—the Saxtons were the only ones who might accept them and not turn their backs on them. So she had begun her trek east, each step more painful than the last.

The beauty and calmness of nature had almost taunted her as she cradled the small boy against her. Claudine kept remembering the screams of her mistress and tears rolled down her downtrodden face until she collapsed into a heaping mess. She had resulted to crawling until finally catching sight of the main road. A farmer had taken her to the safety of the Saxton estate where the Lord of the manor himself had run out to meet them. It was when the physician had seen to William's wounds that he exclaimed it to be a boy.

Claudine looked down at him now and at the long hair flowing past his hips. Shears for cutting the linen cloths rested on the cupboard next to them. She dragged her hand across the dark tresses.

"Sit up, William," she bade the boy. There was no longer a reason for hiding.

He did as she bade, having not opened his mouth even once since arriving in the house. William watched as she rose from the bed, wincing at the pain of her bandaged shoulder. Claudine reached for the shears and went over to sit by his side.

"I think it is due time that Wilma disappears forever," she stated, holding the shears before him. There was a sense of sadness held within both as the boy nodded. He turned around, sitting with his back to her, allowing her to gather the long strands in her hand. Claudine hesitated before making the big cut. His long hair symbolized an era of his life that was now to pass. The protected childhood he had once known had ended in a violent manner. But whatever William felt, he never showed it to her.

The hair fought against the sharp blade of the shears, but she finally managed to snap it all off just by his ears. Claudine continued cutting at the strands, all close to his head. William stared at the intricate mahogany headboard and felt the weight of the hair fall all around him until he was rid of it.

The young boy picked up a long strand of hair and ran a hand across his head. "No more Wilma," he said—the first sentence he had uttered in days.

"No more Wilma," Claudine mimicked with a sigh.

* * *

 _May 19th, 1520 - Wessport_

"I love my sister," she began with guilt in her voice. "I always have." Rosalie's clear eyes drifted all over the room, avoiding Edward's at any cost.

When the masked man had discovered the identity of the said spy, she had fled to one corner of the room. She had only to open the door and see the heavy look in his eyes to understand that Edward knew everything. Few words were uttered between them in that short space of time.

Rosalie thought all was lost. She feared he would give it all up to her sister. But when he calmly went to sit down in one of her chairs, she slowly retreated to her own with what little dignity she had left.

They sat across from each other, one tense and rigid, the other questioning everything he'd known this far.

Big and light stones made up the wall on the far side of the room, enveloping a wide fireplace. The ceiling was high in roof and several simple chandeliers hung from it. The brass flickered dangerously as rays of the sun bounced off from it. The chairs they were sitting in were old and uncomfortable. It was not the cushioned chairs Edward had grown so used to. He caught himself—since when did he find cushioned chairs to be important? Rosalie's taste was simple. She had little decoration in her drawing room and let the natural light that filtered in do all the work. The rest of the walls were lined with dark wood panels. There was no tapestry, no motives to offset the otherwise gloom aura brought on by the dark wood. But it wasn't necessary. The west end of the room was practically made up of windows, letting in more than enough daylight as it were.

She was, despite herself, more poised than imagined. Edward had expected her to be coy like her sister. But Rosalie held some kind of silent grace he had never noticed before. She might be nervous awaiting his reaction, but she did not show it. Her straw blonde hair was pulled away from her face. Rosalie was only a few years younger than Victoria, in her mid-thirties. But, while Victoria sometimes appeared older than her age, Rosalie looked younger. Her skin was smooth and void of wrinkles. Her face had been set in the same neutral expression for years. Rosalie never laughed, Rosalie never cried. Her face showed no trace of any displayed emotion. But a glint in her eye promised that she was capable of such and of more.

If Victoria was the living embodiment of her father, Rosalie took after her mother. But, from what many had said during her younger years, she was as goodhearted and as wise as her father had been. Rosalie had never inherited that adventurous free spirit of his. She was calm and collected, as her mother had been.

"The whole of Angloa knows that," he answered back. When Edward took note of her guard against him, his head lowered in a slight bow. "I would never reveal who you are—"

"And what do you think I am?" she retorted, just as guarded. Rosalie had no idea what he knew yet. She needed to figure it out before compromising herself.

"You are the one who has been spying on Victoria for Athar all these weeks, are you not? Or is conspiring suspiciously with a priest in the chapel a daily basis for you?" he deadpanned. The princess' mask slipped a sliver. It was all Edward needed to confirm his beliefs. "Such actions are dangerous in times like these."

"I do not need you to patronize me, Lord Cullen," she muttered back.

"It's Mr. Cullen now."

Rosalie had the exact same gray eyes as Philip Fell held in his portrait. But the arrogant expression was not there.

When Edward had been campaigning in the north, he had returned a few times to the capital to seek an audience with Jasper. He had seen the young princess stalk the corridors like some mellow ghost stuck in the past. But he had never spoken to her. And Rosalie had never found it necessary to speak with him.

She had heard of Edward Cullen's unwavering honor and loyalty. But she still needed to know if she could trust fully in him or not. Rosalie desperately wanted to—for he could well be a powerful ally.

"Which further backs my point. My sister, although fond of you, trusts little in you at the moment. If you were to go to her, she would never believe the words that stemmed from your mouth," Rosalie retorted fiercely. It was clear that she was on the defense now.

"I will not tell your sister," he repeated calmly.

The princess could not help but scoff. "Really? So, you would blackmail me instead for your silence?"

"You insult me, Your Highness."

Rosalie's head went to one side as her eyebrow arched, her manner was similar to that of her sister's. But her demeanor appeared gentler, not as fiery nor imposing as Victoria could be. "What do you want?" she asked in a guarded tone, not being able to hide her curiosity now.

"I want you to help me and Miss Swan to escape," he said in a lighthearted manner. The grave voice boomed in the vast room and Rosalie grew white at the words.

"What?"

"You heard me. I want to get as far away from this infernal place as possible," he squared his jaw. Rosalie darted from the chair and started pacing the room. Her figure cut through the invading sunbeams.

She finally stopped in front of him, as if trying to make sense of things. "You are not in league with my sister, but neither are you with Lord Athar?" she asked in bewilderment.

"And you are? You have me just as confused, Your Highness. The first thing you mentioned when I entered this room was your love for your sister. Yet you are siding with Athar to take her down."

Rosalie put up her hands. "No, wait. I do love Victoria. But there are things you do not understand about her. It is all very complicated—"

"Then make me understand," he cut her off.

Rosalie stared at him, almost as if insulted. "Do not take this the wrong way Lor- Mr. Cullen. But I have spoken to you in a total of perhaps five minutes in all the years we have known each other. You are asking me to trust you with personal and vital information." She almost stared at him as if he were a simpleton.

"If you truly do not wish to reveal what ails you with your sister, then I shall not make you tell me. But know that the battle you are fighting for both protecting and defying her will not last much longer. If I could discover you, so will others." He leaned forward in the chair. "Let me guess," he started. "You care and love your sister but fear what she is becoming. You desperately hope there is still a part of who she used to be deep within the woman that now claims her. But, as you slowly start realizing that you are losing her, you turn to the only man you think will save this kingdom from imploding on itself. I might even go as far to say that you are the only thing stopping both the queen and Lord Athar from going at each other's throats right now."

As he ended his little speech, the princess sat immobile in front of him. There were no words that would deny or confirm what he had just said.

Edward rose from the chair. "You must choose one or the other. You cannot have both, Your Highness. Either you commit fully to helping Lord Athar or you turn from him and hope your secret will never be revealed to your sister."

Rosalie stared up at him. "You have no idea what you speak of, Cullen," she said with a shudder of anger in her voice. "And I hope for your sake you will never know the torment I am faced with."

"I cannot offer a solution to you. But I know you are pious, so perhaps saving two innocent people in all of this will settle an otherwise tormented soul," he offered. But Edward could not hide the malice in his own voice. He knew very well why the anger toward the princess was rising within him. Rosalie was pulled by two extremes and she could not decide which way to go—just like him. If she chose one path she would be burdened with guilt the rest of her life. But if she chose the other, she would be struck down by unhappiness as well.

He bowed and left her with his words, hoping he had shocked her enough so that she might seek him out. Edward knew that in these types of situations it was better playing the long game. It was no use trying to convince her. Rosalie was too guarded against him now. He had only his reputation to go by and it was not enough. She might not be the solution he had hoped for after all. Edward had to find another way to get out of Wessport.

As the masked man stepped out, the princess crumbled in the chair, trying desperately to push their conversation out of her mind. But, unfortunately, she knew that what he said was too close to the truth. She looked at the door he had closed after him and Rosalie now fought another battle: if she should tell her sister about Edward or not.

 _May 21st_

The Assembly was in session again. Edward Cullen had been invited as well. He stood in the corner with the most shadow, brooding as always.

No one had found the spy. Not one person. She controlled her spurts of rage and realized more drastic measures were needed.

"I see no one has yet found this spy and I begin to grow weary," she muttered under her breath.

"Your Majesty, not even a week has passed since you—"

"You should have found this person within one day, at least. Wessport is not that big!" she lashed out at Lord Otto Savoie. He bit his tongue while his eyes darted to the ground. "Anyone else feeling like contributing?"

They all remained silent.

Victoria chuckled. "You are all useless."

"Perhaps this only shows that there is no spy in Wessport," came the dark voice from the far corner. Heads turned to get a glimpse of the figure in black as he leaned against the wall. Only the nobility had the right to a seat. Technically, Edward Cullen was not one anymore.

The queen's head flipped to the side mimicking confusion. "Are you calling me paranoid, Cullen?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," he growled back.

"Then how is Athar getting his information? How does he know where my tax-collectors go, where I have weapons and food stashed away for my troops? How does he know where my recruiters are?"

"Maybe Athar is smarter than you give him credit for. He has been the longest at court, after all. I am sure he knows a few things or two," Edward rasped. Lord Launël stifled a chuckle at the impropriety of the man. Only Edward Cullen would dare utter such harsh words. Not even Alistair, Victoria's closest confidant, would speak in such a way to her.

The queen drummed her nails against the armrest while waiting in silence. Her eyes stared emptily in front of her as her mind wandered off deep in thought. Edward, as well as the rest of them, could see that she was hatching a plan.

A few tense minutes passed where they all remained silent, awaiting her to speak once more.

"Very well," the queen said as she rose. "I give you all three days to find this spy," she grinned as she went on. "If these three days have passed and you come up empty-handed… well, I'd rather not think about that," she smirked. Victoria waved her hand at them. "You are dismissed."

* * *

"What do you think she will do?" Isabella pondered. Edward had managed to find her in the gardens, only escorted by one maid. One stern look had been enough to send the young woman fleeing from the masked man.

"That is what worries me. Victoria is unpredictable. It could be anything." The more she felt trapped, the worse she became. Edward's fears started coming true. The queen was not only turning into Rebecca Fell, she took after Magnus as well.

She walked, her arm entwined in his. Isabella ignored the looks she received from the other courtiers. Edward had been her fiancé first, as it would always be. Alistair was nowhere to be seen and she suspected he would do little even if he saw them. He had learned not to go against the masked man the hard way.

"Have you found a way to get out of here?" she whispered. Each day grew more excruciating than the last.

"Maybe, but if I do manage to get us out, there is someone I want to take with us."

"Away from the continent?" she asked. His mouth flicked into a smile.

Edward cast a glance her way. "There are more people than just us that deserve to flee from here."

Her eyebrows rose in question. "And who may that be, that he would make you risk your life for them?"

"You would be surprised," he chuckled.

The perfume of the garden circled around them, enveloping them in its fragrant scent. She clung to him as long as she could. Isabella knew to appreciate these short moments in his presence. It was all they had now. She was still parted from him, however. The young woman could not openly declare her affections for him, just as Edward couldn't. Theirs was another prison now. Both ignored the tragedy of their situation, and chose to see the positive in it—they were together, in a sense.

Isabella turned to him. "You must go," she said as she nodded to their right. The maid who had been keeping watch on her before had returned, and with some soldiers in escort. There was no doubt in Isabella's mind that Edward would be asked to leave—by force if necessary.

She regarded his jaws stiffen as he clenched his teeth together. "Aye, I must run, like some thief in the night," he answered brusquely. She knew he hated their situation as much as she did.

Isabella placed her hand on his covered cheek and turned his head to face hers. "I trust in you," she smiled. Isabella masked her own worry, her fear, and regret. He did not need to know that she suffered, that she lay awake at night, feeling alone in her bed, longing for his arms around her.

He nodded and left her before the maid and soldiers could reach them. Isabella let her gaze wander to the ground, vowing to herself that she would never let him go after escaping Wessport. He had chosen to stay with her and she would not let that slip away. Isabella would look past who he had been and just see the man he had become.

Edward did not look back as he left the gardens. He knew one look from Isabella was all it took for him to turn around and fight against the guards, just to be able to stay a few more minutes in her presence.

Instead, he went to someone of importance. There was someone else in Wessport he needed to come with him. There was someone that was not only clear of mind yet logical in his resolve. What was most important about this person was that they could be able to convince Athar to give up his fight against Victoria, if it ever came to that.

His legs carried him to the chambers while his mind was absent. Edward stepped in without knocking. Rosalie had ensured him that no spies would be present as he visited Lord Theodor Glovendale.

Drawn curtains blocked out a radiant sun and clear skies. The insides of the chambers were dull and darkened. A fire crackled in the fireplace, even if it was growing too hot for it. May was reaching its end and summer had long since managed to push the last remnants of winter away. Alas, its gloomy aura had never left. Victoria's reign was a constant reminder of the darker and more frightful days of the past—days many of them had wished to forget.

In one corner of that room sat a man with his back turned to the door. He did not rise at the unexpected guest. Edward did not bother with any formalities and approached the fire where Theodor sat.

"It seems the queen was quite thorough with you," he murmured while sitting down in the wooden chair next to the fauteuil.

Theodor did not look at Edward right away. One of his eyes was swollen shut and his lip was split. His left hand had been bandaged; each finger individually. His fingernails had most likely been ripped off. His foot was propped on a stool, a pillow seeing to it that it was more comfortable.

"I see she did not do you the same courtesy. But then again, I never see much of you, Lord Cullen."

"It's Mr. Cullen now," Edward rasped.

"I care little of titles." Guilt rose within Edward as he contemplated the defeated lord before him. When he did not speak, Theodor's head slumped in defeat. "I am sorry," he finally stated.

"For what?"

The one good eye caught his. "For what? I am sorry that I told Victoria about you. Even if the information was not incriminating, I still failed you—I betrayed you." Theodor hung his head in further shame. He had always seen himself as a truthful and honorable lord, willing to give everything to protect those he cared for.

"We all cannot blame ourselves when being put in such position. You are not to blame for this. Victoria tortured you, and quite extensively from the looks of it. If it were a lesser man he would have given away everything. I know for a fact that you still kept things from her. I thank you for not telling her how Lord Braun really died," he said, bowing his head in gratefulness.

Theodor waved his hand carelessly. "There is little to do now. I am not allowed to leave these rooms until I am recovered. She does not want anyone to know of my torture," he lamented. "I am as much of a prisoner here as you are. There is no amount of diplomacy that will ever persuade that woman. She knows people too much—knows how to use their weaknesses against them." The older man stared into the nothingness and despair gripped him. "Angloa will tear itself apart. I thought the days of tyranny were gone, but they are right on our doorstep. Things will not get better."

"There are some who believe Victoria can be redeemed—that it is not too late for her," he said, stating his own and Rosalie's beliefs.

"Perhaps. But how will we know unless we try and unless she lets us? Victoria has had her guard up since before her father died. She might think she is doing the right thing. But wanting to take down men like Athar blinds her to see what she is doing to Angloa."

"So you think a war is imminent as well?"

"I don't think it, Cullen. I know it. It would take a miracle to make the queen change her mind. I don't know anyone that could ever make her see differently," Theodor sighed.

Edward nodded slowly, not showing if he agreed or disagreed with the wounded man. Theodor was not surprised when he never received any response. Edward rose to leave the room with just as little ceremony as when he had entered.

"Leaving so soon?"

The masked man stopped in the doorway. "I will return, Lord Theodor," he said before closing the doors. The words traveled down Theodor's spine like a bad omen. He did not know what Cullen might be planning, but he was pretty certain he had just given him a very dangerous idea.

Edward knew he needed to convince Rosalie of at least getting Lady Renée and Isabella out. If he failed, he did not wish for them to be trapped in the capital with him. They would be separated, but they would be safe. He cursed himself for having to go against his and Isabella's wishes.

Edward rounded the corner, passing the open doors that led to the courtyard, which housed the chapel right across it. He was not alert and almost bumped into someone of shorter stature.

Red robes gave away the stranger who had haplessly walked into him. The masked man gritted his teeth and squared his jaw as Thorpe's scowling face looked up at him.

"Well, if it isn't the disgraced wretch himself," Thorpe insulted. Edward tried to step aside from him, but the cardinal would not let him pass.

"Unless you want me to fulfill my promise of beating you up, you will remove yourself from my path," he growled as he neared the stout man.

Thorpe rose his head in defiance. He knew there was nothing Edward could do to him in Wessport, he had no money or power against the cardinal. "Do not think I am afraid of your threats anymore, Cullen. I am the one in charge here," he spat.

"I am certain the queen would love to hear that from you," Edward retorted. Thorpe only rose an eyebrow.

"The queen holds me in high regard after I offered her my public support."

"So you have always stood by her side."

"I support those who benefit my own cause."

Edward regarded the weasel of a man. He wanted nothing more than to punch that smirk off his face, but he kept his hand in check. "You will let me pass, Cardinal Thorpe, before I do something you will regret."

"Believe it or not, Cullen, I have come to seek you out." The heartless glee that followed that sentence unsettled Edward. They were alone in the hallway, no prying ears could catch their conversation. Only the summer breeze made its presence known.

"What possible reason could you have for seeking me out, unless it is for getting your face punched in?"

"The same reason I sought out Theodor Glovendale—to make him know what was coming to him. The pesky bastard dared make a fool out of me in Rome, before the Vatican."

The vague statement started putting the puzzle pieces into place. "You managed to talk Victoria into torturing him in that dungeon," Edward growled. His hand went to Thorpe's neck and he pushed him up against the cold wall, lifting him up with one arm. Thorpe's eyes widened in fear as he was lifted off the ground—his feet dangling a few inches above it as his face turned blue. The murdering intent in Edward's eyes was enough to make him soil himself in fear. Luckily, Edward stopped himself from completely choking the cardinal to death.

He released Thorpe who fell like a rag against the wall, gasping for air. "That mistake will cost you, Cullen," he exclaimed, enraged.

"And what will you do? Victoria has already done everything possible to me."

Thorpe gripped at his throat, the blue and purplish color soon fading from his wide face. The small pig-like eyes glinted dangerously at him as a strained chuckle emerged. "What she has done against you will seem like child's play if I had my say." Thorpe straightened up. "I wonder how Her Majesty would feel if her sister's traitorous nature was ever revealed to her."

Silence followed that statement. Silence and utter horror on Edward's part. "You are not the only one aware of Her Highness' generous contributions to Athar's cause," Thorpe continued.

He wallowed in the feeling of, once more, seeing the masked man conflicted, wondering how he should proceed from now. "Why have you not told Victoria?" Edward managed to ask.

"Because I would not gain much from it. Victoria only made that offer to the lords of the Assembly—not to a man of the church. I would gain more from you—knowing you would do anything for my silence," Thorpe grinned in a sinister manner. The smile was enough to provoke shivers in the masked man.

He never thought he would have to add blackmailing to the list now. A splitting headache had already started taking root as he realized Thorpe was playing around with him for his own amusement.

"And what do you want me to do for your silence?" he asked reluctantly.

Thorpe regarded the taller man, breathing in sharply through his nose, smacking his lips in a satisfied manner. "You can start by kneeling, Cullen."

The stare he received only provoked more laughter in the cardinal. "Kneel, peasant, for it will be something you will have to get used to from now on."

Edward stared at the cold ground. If Thorpe told Victoria of Rosalie, he was certain it was enough to derail the queen and for her to lock in her sister. Any trust or faith Victoria had left in anyone would disappear. He suspected Rosalie was the last true and good thing the queen had left in her life. If Rosalie was unmasked, their hope of ever helping her turn good would die away.

So he did what he had to, ignoring completely his foolish pride. Edward took solace in the thought that there wasn't anyone else present to see him do such a humiliating act.

He kneeled, the limbs of his legs protesting loudly as one knee soon touched the cold stone floor. "Good," Thorpe said. "Maybe you will think twice about ever threatening me again—of ever humiliating me again."

The covered head rose to meet Thorpe whose eyes glanced down at him. "Hope for your sake that the tides do not turn."

"Ah, they will not, my dear lad. I will make sure of it. You see, I want you to go to Victoria and declare your loyalty to her now."

"What?"

"I want you to kneel before her like you have done before me. I want you to give her your word of honor that you will stand by her side in this fight against Athar."

Edward lost all hope as he heard those words. "You can't—"

"I can and I will. I know you value Miss Swan. But you value your honor and pride almost equally." Thorpe knew exactly what he was doing. If Edward swore his fielty to Victoria, he was bound by his honor to serve her until she released him—which she would never do.

"I will never—"

"Then I suspect the queen will not be pleased with the news of her sister," Thorpe smirked.

Edward had to take deep and calm breaths, as not to lash out against the vile man before him.

"You will learn, in due time, how things work here at court. Now be a good little servant and go to Her Majesty."

Thorpe turned his back, leaving Edward still on one knee, completely devastated by what had just transpired.

* * *

Victoria grinned. "This is the first time you have sought me out by your own accord," she remarked. They were alone in the throne room—the blue hall. It was dusk and golden rays invaded the tall windows, slipping through the pillars holding up the gallery.

Victoria was perched upon her throne, removed from her subjects, displaying herself above them all.

"Have you found the spy?" she asked.

Edward shook his head. "There is no spy, Your Majesty. I fear even the smartest man in the capital would be unable to find what you seek." He took one step forward, walking toward her with determination.

"Then why are you here?" She fixed her intense eyes on him, but Edward did not waiver.

"I will never stop caring for Isabella, that much has to be clear," he rasped as he came up to stand right in front of her. The queen craned her neck to the side while lifting an inquisitive eyebrow. When the imposing man in front of her went down on one knee, both eyebrows reached her hairline. "But if the only way for me to be with her is to do as you say, then I will pledge my loyalty for all to hear."

Victoria darted up from the throne, turning her back to him. "Do you think me foolish to trust in such blatant lies?" she exclaimed, her back still to him.

"You know I would never lie about this. You know I pride myself on my honor—I would never taint it thus!" he reverted with such ardor that the queen's mouth opened in astonishment. She slowly turned to face him, her eyes sparkling with hopeful anticipation.

"Then you are not in jest? Will you truly stand by my side? Fight by my side?" she asked, not being able to mask her joy. Something else within the depths of her eyes emerged. The hope Victoria held was raw and powerful.

"I, Edward Cullen, will be yours to command, my queen," he said, bowing deeply from where he kneeled.

The queen descended the throne and stood right in front of him. "Then arise a knight, General Cullen." Her eyes glittered as they met his. "You and I will truly commit wonderful feats that shall echo through history!"

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you liked this chapter! Sorry for not updating it this weekend. But my final goal is to have the fic finished before Christmas Eve. So I have roughly two weeks for that to happen. There are still a few chapters left and I need to really work on them now.**

 **If you liked this chapter, please feel free to leave a review, they are always appreciated!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	23. Chapter 23

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 23_

 _June 12th, 1503 – Coast of Spain_

Rolling hills in gold met a contrasting sapphire sky. The dry winds dragged across the arid land and the young boy stepped away from the road. He handed the dark-haired woman traveling with him the water-pouch.

An open road stretched toward the horizon and small farms dotted the picturesque hillside country. There were whitewashed adobe houses looking foreign and alien to them dotting the landscape. Sometimes they would see ruins as they kept to the road—hoping it would take them to the nearest city.

Their ship bound for Bordeaux, France, had been caught in a bad storm a few days prior. They had shipwrecked on a desolate beach. Many had perished during the night and it was soon that William and Claudine found themselves traveling alone on the road, hoping they could find out where they were.

She guessed it to be either Portugal or Spain. Claudine hoped it was not the later as France and Spain had been in quite a few tousles the last few years. Being a Frenchwoman on Spanish soil did not bode well.

When evening set, they finally reached a little village, close to a city called Huelva. It was there that Claudine managed to get work as an extra hand in an inn, in exchange for food and housing for the night. She did not speak a lick of Spanish, and the only language she used to communicate with the innkeeper was with gestures.

William, never having done a day's work in his life, was made to help as well. The young boy, having been spoiled and showered with warmth and affection before, now got to see the real and ugly world for the first time. After doing all the tasks wrong and begin beaten several times when they knew Claudine was not looking, he finally succumbed to tears. It was enough to make the innkeeper refuse to give them what had been promised, even after their hard work.

Claudine had seemingly given up then as well. They sat next to the stone fountain and she wondered if she would ever be able to get away from there—or how they should move forward.

"What do we do now?" William exclaimed in agony. "How can we work when we don't even speak the language!"

Claudine did not answer him but put her face in her hands, hiding the despair that was creeping its way on to her face.

A shadow blocked out the pressing sun. "You speak English, yet you are not British. I detect an Angloan accent here and another one I cannot place," a masculine voice said above them.

William looked up at the voice and found a robust man in his fifties, smiling down at them both, especially at Claudine.

"My aunt is Portuguese," William said without thinking. Claudine chastised him and told him to be silent.

The man was Spanish, for he spoke English with a most pronounced accent. "You seem to be in a pickle," he stated rather obviously.

"We were on a ship headed for Angloa when we were put off course by the storm," Claudine lied.

"Si, I usually work in the harbor of Huelva, but our captain would not sail since he foresaw the storm. The crew has been waiting for it to pass." He saw their wretched state. "Can I help you with something?"

Claudine shook her head. "We have no money and lost all of our possessions in the shipwreck, señor."

The Spaniard clicked his tongue. "What a pity."

"We tried to get some work in the inn, but since we do not speak Spanish it did not go so well," William added.

"Bah! I know the innkeeper, Pedro. He was only using you. I do not think he ever intended to pay you," the man sneered. "But listen. I know a friend who is heading to Seville. If you lack a job I am sure he can get you to the big city and you will most likely find something there," the man smiled.

Claudine let a smile break through her stiff visage. "You would do that for us, señor?" If they could make some money, it would perhaps be enough to get them passage up north and across the Pyrenees.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "Let me go get Jorge. You do not have to pay a dime to go with him. The city is only half a day's journey away, at best."

"We are forever in your debt," William smiled—warmed that there was still some good people left in the world.

 _February 29th, 1501_

The carriage stopped in front of the great palace doors. A footman soon opened the heavy door and helped her get out of the carriage.

Rosalie stared timidly at the line of servants placed there, welcoming her. At the end of that lineup stood her sister, regally dressed in fine velvet and with a net keeping her braided hair away from her face. The lines of her face were rougher than she remembered, the usual smile did not reach her eyes and she seemed older.

Many courtiers had gathered behind the princess to welcome Rosalie Fell home. She dragged the shawl tighter around her as the Mother Superior walked with her. The kind woman had made the long journey north to accompany her.

The stiff and unfeeling faces of those who watched them made Rosalie feel small and insignificant. Gray heavens looked down at her. This was not the Wessport she remembered. It was somehow dull and harsh.

She walked up to her sister, receiving a stiff embrace. "Welcome home, Rosalie," Victoria whispered in her ear.

"Victoria, I am so glad—"

"Not here, dear," her older sister said, the harsh eyes flickering back and forth from her to the ever-present public standing behind them.

Rosalie received more welcomes from people she had never known or simply did not remember. Her homecoming was as depressing and gray as the cloudy, dull skies that weighed down on Wessport.

Rebecca Fell had decided that the young princess had to return. Jasper had gone through with his mother's wishes, thinking Rebecca genuinely wanted Rosalie back to reunite the family. What he did not realize was that it was a play made by Rebecca, showing Victoria that she still held the power in the kingdom.

Lord Athar and Victoria had protested widely, but the king had made the final decision in the end. Victoria now feared that Rebecca would marry Rosalie off to someone as bad as Mayne or even worse. She could no longer hide her sister away nor protect her.

Once in Victoria's chambers, the older sister embraced her younger sibling more affectionately, letting her true emotions show once they were away from prying eyes.

"I have missed you!" Victoria exclaimed.

"I am glad to be by your side once more," Rosalie echoed.

Victoria pushed her at arm's length. Her sister had started blooming and truly now took after their mother. "If father were here he would be so proud of you," Victoria smiled in a heartwarming way.

"As he would be of you. But something tells me you are not happy about my presence here."

"I am glad to see you. But court is not safe for you, not yet."

"Rebecca Fell," Rosalie stated. The nuns had been very colorful in their language about the abusive dowager queen. "I have heard enough to know what kind of person she is.

"She is vile, sister. She will do anything possible to remove what little power I have claimed."

Rosalie furrowed her brow at her sister's words. "Power?"

"It is the only way to survive here—to grasp at power, become stronger than your opponent," Victoria said.

Her words should have alarmed her younger sister if it were not for the fact that Rosalie was so glad to see her. "I am just happy to be by your side now, Victoria," Rosalie smiled.

 _October 30th, 1503 – Seville_

Every morning he would rise to the sounds of the chiming bells. In the distance, the _Giralda_ stood proudly, soon competing for the glory of the sun in the cathedral that was soon to be finished. The gothic structure enveloped a big section of the center part of the city, not too far from the Moorish Palace with its gardens.

The young boy with copper hair blended in well with the rest of the street children of the city. A cloth was wrapped around his neck and upper chest, so his cuts would not be visible.

Their first night there had been hard. They had slept under the bare skies. But, for some reason, William had not minded. The temperature had been most pleasant as the coolness of the eve washed away the striking heat of the day. The scent of the orange trees was a heavy perfumed blanket and would block out the other prevailing odors of the city.

Claudine had found a job fast. The young woman was strikingly pretty. She was taken in as a cleaner in an inn, soon promoted to a barmaid. The striking woman started picking up on the language after a few weeks and taught whatever she learned to William. She made some acquaintances, both at the inn, but also in the city.

The young boy, on the other hand, had little he could contribute with. He had no experience or trade. In the end, and without Claudine's knowledge, he had resulted in stealing. The street boys in the city started teaching him, but they would never befriend him.

The day Claudine had found out, was the day William had been grounded for an entire week. His mother had never laid a hand on him before, nor would Claudine. But when she caught him stealing one August afternoon in the main plaza, her hand had almost slapped his cheek.

But she remembered herself—remembered who she was about to hit.

Therefore, when the fever struck and left her immobile, William had to find new ways to get money. He would take on hard work, carrying and pulling crater boxes from the incoming ships that docked in the city's harbor. The river, Guadalquivir, was the scene of a number of vessels, making their way to and from the vast city. But working took its toll on him. William's once soft hands had become blistered and rough. His features were darkened under the intense sun—sometimes he would return home with a burn that would take weeks before it passed.

The fever passed, but her health never recovered. Claudine could scarcely leave the little room they rented over the inn. William started working twice as hard.

One day, he bought some needles, linen cloth and colored thread for her to pass the time. It was not long before they realized they could sell the merchandise she produced.

And, so, started a small business—enough to keep them housed and fed, but not enough to get them on a ship to France.

William stood in the usual corner, scratching the back of his head as he ignored the slight chill in the air. They were almost in November, yet winter took longer to arrive here. The nights had become decidedly cold, but the days were only frisky, at most. Yet, they could not afford enough clothing to properly warm them.

"That one, who made it?" asked an inquiring voice belonging to a woman. William raised his gaze from the ground and came face to face with two black eyes. The wild, dark tresses framing them had faint silver streaks running through them. But the raven color still dominated. Her roman nose pointed out from her severe face, with faint lines trailing along her forehead and around her mouth and eyes.

This woman had to smile a lot, thought William as she eyed him.

"Well?" she asked with more force. Her thin finger pointed at a flowery motif that Claudine had embroidered several times.

"The same woman who does the other embroideries," he said in a very broken Spanish. William pointed to the arrangement of napkins and shawls that he offered.

The strange woman narrowed her eyes, looking at the napkins. "Are you interested?" he asked, hopeful. William had yet to sell anything that day.

She shook her head. "Do I look like I have money to spare on things like these?" she asked flat out. The question took him by surprise, but William agreed once he stepped back and took a good look at her. Her clothes were ripped and severely worn. But the air of pride and condescension in her look was that befitting a high-ranking noblewoman.

"No, señora," he answered timidly. "But why did you come over with such questions if you were not interested in purchasing anything?" he dared ask, his Spanish barely allowing him to form a coherent sentence.

The woman chuckled. "Because I have been hearing about the Angloan boy walking around the city, selling these embroideries. I wanted to hear if the rumors were true," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

"What rumors?" he asked hesitantly, taking a step back. William suddenly got suspicious of her. Was she in league with those assassins who had tried to kill him and Claudine all those months ago?

"Well, if your Spanish was as bad as they made it out to be," she deadpanned.

William stared at her for a long moment, his mouth opening and closing several times, trying to come back with a coherent sentence. "You came here to listen to my accent?" he asked in disbelief.

"Well, I've never heard an Anlgoan accent before. I find the country dull. And since I've no money to travel there, listening to how you butchered my language was a nice way to pass the time," she chuckled.

William should have been offended, but he found her wittiness and ease in manners strangely charming. A chuckle escaped him as well. "I hope I did not disappoint," he answered cheerfully.

"Not at all, but you're no worse than some of the street children running around here—and they actually speak the language." Their peculiar interaction went on for some time, until the woman turned around, leaving him alone. But before leaving him, she pressed a small pouch into his hand. "Give this to your _mamá_ so that she will get better soon," she whispered with a crooked smile on her lips. William stared at the strange woman as she left, looking down at the flimsy leather pouch. So many questions rushed through his mind. But when he looked up, the woman was gone.

It was only then that William realized it to be the first time he had laughed since his mother had died.

* * *

 _May 22nd, 1520_

People elbowed their way through the otherwise picturesque square of the packed middle ring. People of both high and low birth had all ventured to the vast plaza to bear witness to one of the queen's many proclamations.

Yvenn's square was the largest in the city. While it did not host the finer merchants who usually ventured up to the upper circle, many other merchants tried their luck here, usually with a successful outcome. Cheaper spices and herbs could be bought there. Lower grades of silk, linen, and wools could be purchased as well. Usually, if one was willing to bargain, a merchant could fetch him or her some finer goods from their friends in the upper square.

But if Yvenn's square was the unofficial marketplace of Wessport, it was most definitely the official site for the Royal and Assembly proclamations. Many laws of importance would be presented to the people before being plastered to the board at the north side for all of them to read.

The square hugged the cathedral—a building that loomed over it like a giant shadow. The gothic buttresses stretched like spider's legs and spread through the soiled streets of the city. The chants of the monks never reached the ears of the people. It died somewhere within the vast building itself.

Morning progressed into afternoon when a minor official of the royal secretary came bearing scrolls, ready to be nailed onto the otherwise full wooden board. It was a sunny and peaceful day. Many had ventured to the market to pass the best hours of the afternoon.

The steady rhythm of the hammer on the metal nail caught their attention. Lately, they townsfolk had seen a few too many officials rummaging through the streets, proclaiming a new law after the other. Victoria was determined to completely reform the country. The people of Wessport had started noticing the change as taxation increased while the tolerance for crime lowered.

When the eerie echo of the hammer stopped they all quickly gathered like mice to breadcrumbs, wondering if it was yet another raise in taxes.

Those who read managed to sprint to the front and exclaimed in shock and disgust. "This cannot be!" one said as his heart dropped all the way down to his stomach. "Now it is all truly lost!" another one lamented.

"What does it say?" a young boy screamed atop his lungs when he could not distinguish the intangible scribble on the parchment. Those who had read the text shared glances amongst themselves, knowing well what the common reaction to the news would be.

"Says 'ere that Edward Cullen, who a few days ago lost 'is title, has been knighted by the queen and elevated to a General again," the man said, spitting to the side. "Took 'im quicker than I thought," he sneered.

A low murmur erupted, escalating until people screamed out loud in anger. They felt fooled, nay, betrayed! Many had placed their faith in that the masked man would flee the clutches of the queen and join forces with Lord Athar. Once the old lord and the Lion of the North were reunited, they would reconquer Wessport and make all right.

People started murmuring amongst themselves, whispers of storming the palace, whispers of revolting. But as that murmur got louder, as they started moving for weapons on impulse, the royal guard came riding through the openings of Yvenn's square, controlling the ever-growing mob. Before they knew it, half of them were 'taken in for questioning'. It had not gone ten minutes before even a thought of storming the queen's palace had been uttered and the people were already being subdued. Those who had remained silent watched in horror as they slowly came to realize just how watchful the queen was of them.

* * *

"They managed to silence most of them, Your Majesty. But they could not take in all. The scene at Yvenn's square is already spreading like wildfire. The people of this city now know the grip you hold over them," Alistair said as he related what the captain of the guards had told him.

"How many did the guards manage to imprison?" she asked coldly, sipping a glass of wine while lounging in her favorite chair. The fires sparkled in the chimney even if it had grown too warm for them.

"At least three dozen, from what I gather."

"Good," she said, just as coldly. "Hang the men and let the women go to the mines. Display the severed heads in Yvenn's square. Let the people know what happens when they question their queen." She took another sip, playing with a stray lock of her dark-red hair.

"But Your Majesty," Alistair began. "The only reason they even thought of revolting was because you knighted Cullen. He was the champion of the people and you brought him down into the dirt." She did not miss the smug and satisfied smile of the man.

"That should please you, then," the queen muttered, downing the contents of the cup and filling it anew.

"It would," he paused, "if it were not for the fact that he is dragging you down with him. Before the people were cautious of you, they did not know exactly what to think of you. But now they fear you. Some have even gone as far as to compare you to Magnus himse—"

"Finish that sentence and your head will grace Yvenn's square as well," she growled, the words dripping from her tongue like venom. The eyes of the viper dug into Alistair's and he cleared his voice.

"I beg Your Majesty to forgive me. But you took me on as your main advisor. And I aim to advise. Whatever plan you had to outwit Athar, it has backfired. The people idealized Cullen before. But now his name is sullied. Even if he wins your battles for you, you have lost the people. If you continue going on this punishing spree, you will lose the people for good. Cast Cullen aside while you still have the time, out him as a dishonorable man, willing to trade kings and queens whenever it suits him."

But Victoria remained unmoved by Alistair's words. "I never knew you hated him so," she smirked. "But that hatred suits you well." Victoria put the cup aside and rose from her chair. "However, you haven't been paying attention. It is true I have my eye on the people. But they do not only express their opinions in open squares. You have only heard some stories. There are others circulating about our masked friend as well."

She was met by confusion, for Alistair had no idea what the queen was speaking of. "My uncle and his wife were cruel people, Alistair. But I learned a great deal from them, especially from her. Let me teach you a lesson—never trust in one source. Before you form an opinion, you need more information. While the people openly speak out against Cullen, they are already forgiving him. They are giving a reason to his betrayal against Jasper—a reason he is coming to serve me," Victoria said, eyes aglow with fire. "It is the purest reason for any man, the only reason he can betray everything he stands for: love. Whispers of his undying love for Isabella Swan are already spreading faster than the fact that he bent the knee for me. Soon they will idealize him even more. Soon, the people will forgive him and follow him. The people may not love me, Alistair, but they will soon forget about my actions as long as I have Sir Cullen by my side," she smirked.

Alistair stared at her, mouth agape. "I never saw it that way," he said dumbfounded.

"But, of course, you didn't, and neither would Braun have. Both of you play the short game. You need to learn to be patient, Alistair. Unless you want to end up like your friend," Victoria sneered. "Now get to work. I suspect you have a lot of things to do instead of standing here mumbling like a buffoon." The words sounded almost loving to Alistair. He did not see the carelessness she held for him behind them.

Alistair bowed in haste before leaving the queen to herself. She was certain about what she had said, but a small part of her could not help but worry that Edward might perhaps be despised by the people. The prized steed she'd managed to win over to her side might prove to go down in value the moment she had tainted it with her own presence.

While Alistair stalked the corridors of the palace, he felt the tendrils of anxiety fester even more. The now powerful lord was as nervous as the others. They never knew what the queen was up to anymore. She was more unpredictable than Jasper and her mood could often change at times. There was little time left to find the spy before she came through with her promise—they all wondered what the queen was up to now. Would yet another of them face the hangman's noose or executioner's ax?

* * *

Isabella had been allowed down to the market in the upper ring. But there was only one place she longed to go to—the middle ring. Yvenn's square was a place she had ventured to when living in Wessport right before meeting Edward so many months ago.

Her father had taken her there as well.

Isabella had seen all sides of the capital. Both the ugly and friendlier ones. But she had never seen it this way. It was more guarded against everyone now. People stared at their shoes, even in the upper ring. Isabella was followed by a small group of guards—not there for her own safety, but to make sure she would not run away. And two ladies accompanied, ladies loyal to Alistair. Her prison was movable now.

Through sheer tact, the young woman had managed to persuade both the guards and the ladies that they venture to Yvenn's square. There was something about passing the portal from the upper circle to the middle circle that unsettled them.

Gloomy and heavy clouds threatened to release a hefty spring shower. Electricity coursed through the air, picking at her already alerted nerves as they traversed the cobblestone streets. Isabella kept a brave face on, masking the irritation at having so many people guarding her.

They reached the south facing opening to the middle ring and were let through. Once more the stench reached her, alerting her to what was on the other side of the wall. The buzz of flies blended in with the odor of rotting flesh.

One of her ladies in waiting offered a perfumed handkerchief as they traversed. Isabella turned around. "You should not look at such a sight, my lady," one of the women whispered halfheartedly in her ear. Isabella suspected they almost wanted her to see, for they offered little resistance when she ignored them.

Headless bodies had been hung along the wall facing the middle ring, going in both directions. She counted at least thirty bodies on each side of the gate. The heads hung by the feet, suspended in bloodied ropes. Some ravens picked at the bulging eyes.

Isabella dropped the handkerchief when she recognized one of the faces. The visage was almost overcome by bloating, but she could still see the distinct and pretty features of the maid who had helped her and Edward enter the palace. She saw signs of torture covering everything from her hands to her exposed legs.

Her legs locked in place and the young woman would not move an inch. The ladies in waiting started complaining about the stench and it was soon that a pair of hands dragged her back through the gate.

"Perhaps it is better to stay within the palace. The queen might protect you better that way," one of the guards offered in stiff tones. The ladies pushed their perfumed handkerchiefs closer against their faces to hide sinister smirks. It dawned on the young woman that either Alistair or the queen herself had wanted her to venture to that wall to see the poor maid, Claire—her fate finally catching up with her.

"It would be so heartbreaking to see such a lovely face grace that wall," one of the women whispered. She knew Isabella could hear her, she was meant to hear her.

The message was clear: Isabella knew what fate awaited her if she were ever to disobey. But rather than be discouraged by it, it gave her a new determination. She would not let them scare her; the young woman would do all within her power to flee that dastardly place.

As they trekked back to the palace, her step was firm, her mind clear. Isabella would jump another tower if that was what it took. She would damn them all before letting them separate her and Edward.

 _May 23rd_

The passage was smaller than she remembered—or perhaps she'd grown since last visiting it. It was one of the lesser known ways one could use to silently move around in the castle. Only another person knew of it: her sister.

Her hand pushed against the damp stone wall, guiding her in the murky darkness. She had no use for a lantern, she knew the path ahead like the back of her hand.

There was a reason why she had taken to the passageways, instead of the open and airy corridors of the palace. They were, of course, more comfortable. But none could know she was to visit him.

Since last speaking, he had let her mind wander in all directions. She could not trust him yet—alas, she wanted to. If the proud woman could put her trust in a man such as he, then all might not be lost.

Rosalie halted in front of the door, realizing she could still stop. Nothing was yet determined, even if she spoke with him, she did not have to go through with her plan.

But, some inexplicable force deep within her—a deep-set instinct—told her, no, _begged_ her to push the panel, allowing her to enter the room.

The hinges of the hidden door glided open. Victoria must have had them oiled not too long ago. Rosalie's senses grew alert, wondering if her sister was in that room that very moment.

But she found it empty. Or at least, that was what she thought at first until someone sneaked up on her from behind. Two strong hands forced her to turn around and the heart in the princess' chest started beating at an alarming rate.

The black leather mask greeted her, as well and two deep green eyes frowning down. "Highness?" he asked in a puzzled voice.

Edward released Rosalie Fell the moment he realized who she was. Never in a million years had he expected the princess to carelessly find her way into his rooms so early in the morning.

"So, you finally gave her what she wanted," she said when Edward remained silent.

A loud sigh escaped him. He grew frustrated and anxious as he stretched his neck.

"I am a man of war—I always have been. I know when to step down. I did what I had to, just as so many others have before me. I chose to give up the battle."

"So, you lied to my sister," she said, lowering her gaze and stepping away from him. The open window let in the birdsong of an otherwise quiet Wessport. Most of the city was still fast asleep. She had expected him to be so as well.

"Thorpe knows your secret. He was very much willing to shove it all in my face."

The princess' hand went to her heart as she paled at his words. "That cannot be," she stuttered at the revelation. "I took every care—"

"Not enough. Do not let him know that you are aware of this, it will buy you time," Edward interrupted.

"He was the one to make you bend the knee? For me? But I thought you wanted to leave Wessport," Rosalie said. "I thought none of this mattered to you."

He lowered his head. "I did—I still want to." Edward hesitated. The birdsong died away while the light of day became more prevalent. Somewhere in the hush of morning, they heard the dripping of dew on the windowsill. "It is evident that Victoria truly believes to be doing good for Angloa, I have seen as much in her eyes." Edward bit his lip. "Or perhaps I hold some foolish and naïve belief."

"And what is that?" the princess asked carefully.

His green eyes pierced her gray ones. "I want to believe that your sister can still be redeemed."

Silence pushed at the edges of the room. A grave silence at first as the princess processed the words. The words were not fully a lie, Edward did indeed wish for Victoria to return from the abyss she had cast herself into. But he knew there was a little chance for her. In her eyes, she thought she was doing good, it would take a lot of conviction for her to see otherwise.

"You think, then, that there is a chance?" Rosalie finally asked. She herself had soon started giving up hope on her sister, but could not take the final step of seeking out Athar and joining him—openly defying the self-proclaimed queen of Angloa.

"I want to think so."

The princess went to sit down in a chair. She thought she knew Cullen, a brute of a man who only knew of war and death. That was what they all thought. But she never once believed him capable of what he had shown them all as of late. His obvious care for Isabella had grown so known that, even if the couple themselves did not yet admit it openly, the rest of the world saw it. However, Rosalie never expected the battle-hardened man to think he could still find good in someone like Victoria.

"You want to convince her to end her campaign against Athar."

He nodded slowly. "If both Athar and Victoria continue their strife, Angloa will tear itself apart. Victoria has gone far, but she hasn't crossed the edge. She wants to build a better Angloa, I have seen that much in her. But, right now, her mind is clouded by false judgment. She is surrounded by people who would do Angloa more harm than good, except for you."

Before Rosalie could interrupt him, Edward continued.

"But," Edward said, interrupting her train of thought. "If my judgment is wrong, then I need to know that you will help me escape the capital." He figured this was a good way of winning Rosalie's trust. "And you come with me. For if I run, Thorpe will go for you next."

"Thorpe, the snake. I should never have let my guard down around him," Rosalie murmured to herself. "And you wish to go with Miss Swan, I presume," she responded. Rosalie hoped it would never come to that. "And you would join Lord Athar?"

"I wish to take Miss Swan, Lady Renée, and Lord Glovendale with me. But I will not take part in another war." His eyes narrowed as conflicting feelings of fighting his sister were conjured in his mind. But soon other memories emerged—memories of the war he had played a part in, a war that had cost many lives.

Rosalie nodded slowly, debating if she should put her full trust in him. Edward had been fully honest about his plan and intentions from the start.

"If my sister goes that far, I may have to leave her to her fate," Rosalie murmured to herself. It was as if she was trying to convince herself that it was the right thing to do. But Edward saw the struggle she was faced with, saw how much it pained her to even be having such a thought. "But it must never come to that." A shadow washed over her features as she glanced at Edward, a semblance of guilt invading her face—guilt and something else.

Rosalie was holding back, there was something she wanted to tell him but had not. Edward recognized the look in her eyes. It was the same look Sofia would get whenever he'd ask about his past as a small boy.

"There is something you are not telling me," the masked man stated.

When the princess would not speak he walked over to her and placed his hands on the armrests of the wooden chair, coming face to face with his sister. "I am about to risk my life and freedom here, so I have a right to know what it is you are hiding."

She looked away, wondering if he would remain loyal to his plan after she revealed her knowledge. But Rosalie knew Edward was right. He had the right to know what she hid. In fact, many had the right to know.

"I wish what I am about to tell you will not change your mind about redeeming my sister. I understand if it does, it has made me question her many times. And I have carried this burden long. Yet, I still want to see the good in her."

"I cannot promise anything," he said, stepping away from her. Edward sat down in a chair across from her and crossed his arms, patiently waiting for her to start.

The older woman grasped at the arm of the wooden chair. She pushed her shoulders back. "I love my sister, Cullen. I will always love her. She sent me off years ago to a cloister to protect me from court. But ever since I returned from the convent, I have found her to be changed—changing. Rebecca Fell, the wife of late king Magnus, was a bad influence over her and made her suffer inexplicably. As time went along, Victoria tried to grasp more and more for power. When our father died, she started feeling wronged, confiding in me that the throne was always hers, that Jasper would grow up to be worse than his father and mother combined. In the beginning, I believed her for I had seen what Rebecca and Magnus were capable of. But when Jasper took the throne, he showed he was more than capable enough for the task, especially at such a young age. Victoria grew more ambitious and she slowly started turning away from me—from herself." Rosalie looked down in shame and her face contorted in pain.

"I kept quiet because I wanted to protect her—the only real family I had left," her eyes found his as pain and regret emerged from them. "I saw her do the most horrible things. She would go far for father's throne—too far. She eventually found people willing to support her cause in secret. A lot of lives were lost because of that."

"You mean Braun," Edward murmured.

Rosalie shook her head. She didn't know why, but the princess found it easy to confide in this masked man. His presence made spilling all her burdens an easy task.

"Why do you think the English entered into a war with us so suddenly?" she asked him. "They knew winning over us in our own territory would be hard. But what real reason did they have for invading us?"

"They wanted to reclaim a lost colony…" Edward trailed off, realizing exactly where Rosalie was going. A chill shook his spine as he tensed in the chair.

"Angloa has a throne now. And who would they seat on that throne? No Angloan would ever accept the English. An Englishman on the throne would just end with the very people rising in revolt. Invading us would have been for naught. They needed someone the Angloans could accept yet someone they could control. Victoria offered them just that."

Air left his lungs with a stifled gasp. "The reason _Angloans_ were spying for the English was because they reported to Victoria?"

"She entered into a deal where she would give away all of our military positions to them so that they could win the war. But my sister never thought we would actually lose. We owe much of that to you. She grew weary of you and put spies on you. The closer you got on her trail, the more desperate she became until she ordered Braun to attack the palace in an attempt to place the blame elsewhere. He was her scapegoat."

"So, England would get Angloa while placing their puppet queen on the throne. But it would have looked like Braun entered into that deal and not Victoria," Edward said in awe. He had never thought his oldest sister to be so resilient.

"I cannot let that happen. If another civil war breaks out, the English will send troops to help my sister. They will strategically make it look so that she is not receiving their support, but they would attack only Athar's armies. It would bode disaster for Angloa. That is why we must make my sister realize her mistake. In her quest for power, she has ignored what our ancestors fought so hard for. Our family represents the freedom we gained. I cannot sit by quietly and see her place it back in English hands."

"But blood has been stronger than the safety of Angloa until now." Edward understood why Rosalie would not want a feud between sisters.

"I do not want Athar to vanquish her. And I do not want her to throw it all away for that crown. But I cannot stand by much longer and watch in silence. My cousin rots in a dungeon because of her, there may come a day where I will have to act and perhaps join Athar. I might have to fight my own sister," Rosalie lamented.

"Had I any siblings, I would not wish to fight them either," he agreed.

"So, what will you do?" the princess asked, afraid what the answer might be. But she hid it well. The expression on her face was equally as neutral as Edward's mask.

He could not give her an answer so quickly. Edward's belief started coming into question. He faced the exact same dilemma: duty or family.

"Her Majesty is making the woman I care for marry someone that would destroy her life. She wants me to stay in court as a statement to her power—to show that I am on her side. All I want is for Isabella to be safe and happy, and that cannot happen here in court. I need to get her away."

Rosalie was not more naïve than he. She too knew what her sister was becoming. But both siblings wanted so desperately to save their older sister before it was too late.

"What you have told me is indeed alarming." He settled back in the chair, the cogs in his mind started turning at a distressing rate. "If this was ever made public, the people of Angloa would protest in an open revolt against her. Your sister would cross that edge just to silence them all. It would be a bloodbath, a disaster."

Rosalie nodded in agreement. "But it is too early to say if this should still be kept hidden or revealed. I will help you leave the palace with Miss Swan and the others. But let us at least try talking with my sister one last time."

"The queen gave the Assembly three days to find whoever has been spying on her and court before she is to announce something. I believe whatever the news she intends to drop on us, they will not bode well. We have little time, not enough to make her change her mind."

"These things take time, Cullen. Time, we may not have."

"And if we take too long there will be nothing left."

The princess stared down at her hands, growing mute. She did not know what to respond to such a statement. She knew he was right. She knew that they were grasping at straws.

"What will you do if your sister does not see reason?" Edward asked carefully.

"If Victoria continues down this path, Angloa will surely see another dark age. Athar can count on my support then. But I will not allow myself to think about such things now," she said with decisiveness. Rosalie had made it clear that she would not answer more on the subject.

Edward nodded in compliance. "Then let us wait and see what the news from Her Majesty is tomorrow. Let us see how we move from there," he said. Rosalie agreed, getting out of the chair.

She headed for the open panel, next to a big tapestry covering the rest of the wall. "Until tomorrow, then," the princess said before closing the door after her. Edward bowed as Rosalie left.

"Until tomorrow, sister," he whispered to himself. A sad smile touched his lips before he reached for the black doublet, carelessly thrown on his bed.

It was still very early, but he had no mind for sleep.

* * *

 **A/N: I hope this chapter was to your liking. We are closing in on the end for this fic people. I will try to update this fic and add chapter 24 during the middle of next week. After I have finished this fic, I am going back and fixing some grammar errors and brushing up on my writing a bit. More info on the final fic will be on my profile soon!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	24. Chapter 24

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 24_

 _November 4th, 1503 – Seville_

"Do you feel better today?" the young boy asked as he came home after a hard day's work. Ever since seeing that strange woman, he'd rushed home, with many questions buzzing around in his mind.

Claudine had weakly accepted the medicine and within a few hours, she had gotten better. Within a few days, her strength had somewhat returned to her. But she could still not find it in her to get out of bed.

"Much better," she said. It was the first time in weeks that she was somewhat lucid. "But how did you afford that medicine?" she asked.

"A woman gave it to me," he said hesitantly. William knew how it sounded and, apparently, so did Claudine.

"Oh, she _gave_ it to you, did she?" The accusing frown only unsettled William further.

"I swear, on my honor I swear," he said with utter sincerity.

Claudine's features darkened somewhat. "Never throw your honor around so blatantly. Your mother would be aghast. Stealing and lying, William!" Claudine coughed lightly, calming herself before the coughing fit worsened. "Your name is all you have left, do not taint it with such actions."

"I did not steal this, but stealing would be a lot easier than doing a hard day's work!" the young boy exclaimed, frustrated.

"Of course it would!" Claudine shouted back. "If you could profit from honor, everyone would be honorable and decent. But the easy way is not always the best way. We must stay true to our morals."

"And what name do you speak of? I only know that I am William, nothing more," he exclaimed.

"One day you shall know it all, it was what your mother wanted. But you are too young to understand these things," Claudine said. She massaged her temples, fighting the fatigue. "Bring this woman to me and if she did indeed give you the medicine, I owe you an apology."

Alas, it was easier said than done. How could he find that woman when he had never seen her stalk the streets before?

 _February 19th, 1504 – Seville_

The mysterious woman with silver streaks in her hair had been nowhere to be seen for the last few months. And as the southern Iberian Peninsula dipped into the cooler months, Claudine's state worsened. Her fever returned, and her lucidity left.

William's mission was not just to bring home enough money for them to eat. They had been thrown out of their room in the inn and resorted to living in a makeshift tent by the river. A hut was a better-suited name for it. He would look out for that strange woman with black eyes, hoping he could buy some more medicine from her. He also wanted to know how she'd known about Claudine.

The morning moved at a slow pace. The thin layer of ice on the Guadalquivir soon melted away as the rays of the sun gained strength throughout the day. William braved through the rough work and harsh hours, ignoring the pain in his young limbs as he carried the heavy cargo boxes.

After midday had passed, he got some time off for eating. But, this day, he had no food with him. William sat by the docks, ignoring the hunger in his stomach as it rumbled. The orange trees had born their fruits in January and he would go grab some, whenever he got the chance. But the oranges were not enough to feed the whole city, other dwellers on the street would pick the orange trees as well, leaving little left.

William took a handful of dirt and managed to force it down with some water—it would be enough to fill out his stomach, never mind the horrible pains he would get later during the night. It would mean that he could work longer and that he and Claudine could eat tomorrow.

When he passed by the Alcázar, the royal palace of Seville, he saw a striking woman with dark hair by the entrance, trying to sell something. Several people would stop and look at her merchandise before continuing. William's eyes widened once he realized it was the same woman from so many months before.

He did not think twice about leaving the sack he'd been carrying and ran straight up to her.

"Señora!" he exclaimed once he reached her. The woman still bore her torn clothes and severe expression on her face.

"Ah, the foreigner!" she said back with a charming smile touching her features.

"Señora, I need that medicine you gave me a while back," he said, trying to drag her with him. The ten-year-old had no time to lose. He desperately wanted Claudine to feel better.

"Your Spanish has gotten better," she remarked as she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. "Is your mamá still sick?"

"She has gotten worse," he lamented. "Please, just let me buy a little more from you, I beg you!" The woman shook her head and hope left William.

"No money is needed. Take me to her," she said instead. The young boy could not believe his luck. He glanced back at the sack with grain he'd left in the middle of the street. William would leave it there and hope it remained when he returned, but he did not hold high hopes.

They rushed to the river, all the while the boy would explain Claudine's symptoms. But other questions started arising within him. He wondered how it was that the strange woman came to know Claudine and her condition.

They reached the hut and Claudine was asleep as always. The woman took one look at her and shook her head, her features darkening.

"My house is on the left bank, by the baker. It is unlocked, and I live alone. Go get a similar pouch to the one I gave you and a small leather satchel with a flower embroidered on it," she sighed. "And be quick about it." William left with little else in mind. He had no qualms about leaving Claudine with a complete stranger.

The moment the boy left, the woman reached into her pocket and fished out a small flask with an amber liquid. She forced Claudine to drink it and waited. The young woman's pale and parched lips gained some color. The dark circles under her eyes prevailed, just as her light skin remained pale. But, as more rags and clothes were draped over her, giving her warmth from the cold February air, Claudine regained consciousness.

"Who are you?" asked the weak voice.

"A friend," the older woman answered back. "Lay down and do not overexert yourself." It was only then that Claudine realized they were speaking in French. She straightened in her bed and suddenly got suspicious.

"Who are you!" she exclaimed weakly.

"You have a bad memory, madame," the woman smiled sadly. "Nonetheless, we met many years ago."

As she regained more lucidity with the passing seconds, Claudine strained her eyes to discern the features of the woman in the dull light filtering in through the makeshift door. It was not long before her mouth dropped slightly in recognition.

"I used to see you in my village," she stated after a long moment of silence. "You were that gypsy that used to play with me and my mistress, the one who would tell us scary tales or help us pick flowers for the boys we were infatuated with as teenagers."

A chill spread through her, realizing this woman knew who she truly was. "Your embroidery is as elegant as ever," the woman smiled. She pointed to one of the finished napkins, stacked in a neat pile by the side of the hut. A flower with heart-shaped petals decorated the edge. "You still sign your work." She had recognized Claudine's craftmanship early on and watched as the boy would leave his work at the docks each day and then proceed to sell the embroideries. It did not take long for the gypsy to figure out where they lived, and the state Claudine found herself in.

"And to see such a grand and noble French lady, now laying by the Guadalquivir, wasting away," the woman answered.

"I am doing much more than wasting away, I am afraid," Claudine sobbed.

The dark eyes were cast down and a sigh escaped the gypsy. "There is little I can do for you but make you comfortable," she lamented.

Claudine looked at the woman. When she had been a teenager, almost a decade ago, her father had taken her to the Valois family, for her to be a lady in waiting to Leonore Valois. Claudine had refused at first, not wanting to leave her home in northern France. But her father had insisted. Upon arriving in the county where her family lived, Leonore had received her with warmth and both became inseparable. At times, they would sneak out of the chateau and down to the village. There, in the summer months, there would be a striking young gypsy who would live by selling love potions and tell fascinating stories about the four corners of the world. Claudine and Leonore had been swept off their feet by her tales and soon started following the woman around whenever they could find her. For three summers the young gypsy would teach them what she had seen of the world. In return, Claudine and Leonore would bring her trinkets, money, and food, making sure that the woman did not go hungry nor poor.

"Sofia," Claudine murmured, suddenly remembering the name. "I cannot die, I cannot leave William," she said. "There is so much he doesn't know yet!" But the gypsy hushed her in a motherly fashion and forced her to lay down once more.

"Do not worry yourself with that now. You and your friend saw to it that I was fed and taken care of during my time in France. Let me now repay the gesture by taking care of you. You shall have nothing to worry about anymore," Sofia said in a calm manner.

They talked more, Claudine refusing to tell her anything about William or Leonore, or about her current predicament. Instead, Sofia would tell her tales of her travels until William ran into the hut, carrying a satchel and a small pouch with him.

 _April 3rd, 1504_

Sofia had moved in with them as Claudine's condition worsened. It was only by late March that William realized she would not last the spring.

The young woman lay on her bed, not having left the hut in months, the fever relentlessly destroying her and killing her slowly. Sofia had left them to be. It was time for Claudine to say her goodbyes. Any day now, she could not wake up one morning.

"Why did you not tell me how bad it was?" William lamented through tears as the thin woman on the bed focused. She was practically a skeleton covered by whatever was left of her skin and flesh. A haze now clouded her eyes and barely rendered her lucid.

"Because it is my job to worry about you, not the other way around," Claudine sighed. "And, yet, I failed you and your mother." She gazed out the makeshift door as the river trailed forward and the emerald grass swayed in the wind.

"You never told me who I really am," he said after a moment's silence. The way Claudine stared at the blue skies and rolling hills with Seville on the other bank told him she was saying her final goodbyes to the city.

"When the time comes, you will know everything," she said through sadness and pain. "Sofia will take care of you now, she has promised me."

"I will not let you leave me, Ana," he said, uttering her false Portuguese name.

"Claudine, William," she smiled. "My name is Claudine." Her hand went weak in his as her eyes closed. Claudine drifted into a deep sleep from which she would never wake up.

* * *

A few months later, just as summer had gripped the southern peninsula—a year after having shipwrecked on the coast, she finally succumbed to her fever.

Sofia helped William bury her by the river, under the naked sky. The handmaiden of a once noble and proud house had wasted away in a foreign land as a poor and unknown wretch, far from those who loved and cared for her. But her duty had been fulfilled, for William was now in safe hands.

It was not long after that Sofia made him follow her across the continent, leaving Spain and Europe behind them, setting out east.

* * *

 _May 24th, 1520_

It was the day they had all been anticipating with dread. The queen had not gained information on her spy—for she believed herself surrounded by fools. Edward had been quieter than a tomb about Rosalie's secret. He had not even revealed his findings to Isabella.

However, what the queen had gained, was more important than some intel on any spy. She now had her general at her side. Athar had already backed down, taking his forces further into Raven's Grove. Some had even abandoned him as news of Edward Cullen's oath of loyalty sounded in all four corners of the kingdom.

The queen had made good on her threat. As noon neared, she had ordered all of court to gather in the Throne Room. They would bear witness to her announcement. Many speculated over what it would be. Would someone hang? Would she announce her marriage to someone? Whatever it was, it had the courtiers sweating profusely in their fine-tailored clothes.

It was a sunny and otherwise beautiful day. The rains of spring and storms of winter were a thing of the past. They could look forward to the warmth of summer now.

Victoria sat perched on the throne in regal gear. The crown graced the queen's head. Edward was ordered to stand close to her. She wanted them all to see that he was in the palm of her hand. Isabella was forced to be escorted by Lord Alistair. She treated his presence as a poison and never once opened her mouth to answer his questions.

Lady Savoie and some other ladies of court whispered amongst themselves. They knew they were safe, they were the queen's friends, after all.

The great doors to the Blue Room were shut, the wood creaked in echoes, managing to silence the crowd in the room. There was little space to move. Half of Angloa had to have been summoned to Wessport by order of the queen. Even Theodor Glovendale was there, despite his injuries.

Isabella rose an eyebrow in disgust as she spotted Cardinal Thorpe. Last she had seen him, he'd accused Lord Athar of treason. She did not know how involved he was in all of this, but the smug smile on his face suggested Thorpe was exactly where he wanted to be.

The queen had trapped her subjects in the room and she stared out at the sea of courtiers—all there to do her bidding whether they liked it or not.

"I have asked you to join me here today for I have several announcements to make. Everything said within these walls will be made known to the good people of Angloa in due time as well." She nodded to the scribe, who sat apart from the throne, dictating everything the queen said.

"First of all, I have proclaimed Mr. Cullen a knight of the realm. He has sworn to be in my service and thus given me his loyalty. _General_ Cullen takes, once more, charge of the royal armies. He has been charged with the protection of his queen and of her people." Her voice echoed eerily throughout the room as all listened in complete silence.

Edward was thankful for his mask. Every word she uttered about him was another blow to his pride. He had given her his loyalty hoping he could make her see reason, hoping it would buy Rosalie Fell time. Cardinal Thorpe was still reminding him of his threats. But if Victoria Fell would ignore him, Edward would abandon her—thus breaking his word; one of the things he valued most. His honor would be stained.

But he had promised himself and Rosalie. He wanted to see good in Victoria. Isabella had not broached the subject; he suspected she already knew the reason. For, as it were, he did not see any judgment in her eyes whenever she gazed upon him.

Edward stared straight at Alistair the whole time the queen spoke. He hoped the disgraced lord was shivering in his boots, knowing Edward would eventually come for him as well.

"But that is not the reason I have called for you here today," the queen continued, once more capturing his attention. "A few days ago, during one of my Assembly meetings, I had a discussion with my lords." Her eyes trailed across the room, finding the men of whom she spoke. "And I gave them an ultimatum. They were to find something for me, something that, if not found, could put this realm in danger. But, it seems these lords of mine, as loyal as they proclaim themselves to be, could not find the strength to give me what I was seeking. Therefore, the threat is ever prevalent."

The Throne Room grew to have only one heartbeat, increasing with every word she said. Isabella noticed Alistair fiddle with his hands, as well as some other lords of the Assembly nervously staring amongst each other.

"I took the throne," she began. "Because my cousin almost brought this country into the ground. It was thanks to men like General Cullen that we did not succumb to the invader." Edward wondered what she must think when saying such words. He knew she must have been sour—for Victoria had been so close to actually winning the war and thus have the English give her the throne. There was a part of him that could never forgive her for that—for selling out her own country, only so that she may have a grasp of power.

"But my cousin has seen no ramifications for his actions," she stated fiercely. "He has been allowed to remain in peace within his own confinement." Edward wondered just what it was the queen accused Jasper of. The only thing he had done was to better Angloa after the death of his father, and the influence his mother had had over the country.

"Jasper Fell, the son of the usurper, will stand trial for his crimes and the crimes of his father," she said, delivering the climax of her speech.

Edward saw eyes bulge out of their sockets in the crowd below him. He had never expected such a thing from her.

Victoria wanted to put Jasper on trial.

His heart sank in his chest as he sought out Isabella with his eyes. She stared ahead, at the steps. Her mask was in place. Edward was certain, that behind those intriguing eyes, she was just as confused and lost as he. He turned his head a little, looking to see how Rosalie had reacted.

The princess hid her feelings worse than Isabella did. Her mouth had opened, and she stared at her sister in disbelief. They both knew, just as many others in that room, that Victoria had found the perfect opportunity to use Jasper as a scapegoat—just like she had used Braun. Victoria would blame Jasper for the misfortune of the people; say it was his fault that she had to treat them in such a harsh manner. The queen wanted the people back, and she thought placing all the blame on her cousin would secure their trust.

Edward wondered how far she would go. He knew he had to speak to Rosalie as soon as possible. They had to make Victoria change her mind before she did something that might never be undone.

The speech ended, and the crowd dispersed. Edward waited for them all to leave until he was left alone with her.

"Have you remained to offer me your advice?" she asked condescendingly, still sitting on the throne. Her purple robes and golden crown made her as regal as ever. But the emptiness within her eyes screamed of loneliness and want for more.

"Your Majesty, you made me your General. With that position comes responsibilities. And right now, those responsibilities are to tell you that this is not the way. A public trial of Jasper Fell will lead to nothing."

She frowned. "A public trial of my cousin will make the people see what monsters he and his family were! It will reveal what Magnus and Rebecca did for years before Jasper took the throne. Have you not heard the citizens of Wessport demand ramifications? The people want justice and that is what I aim to give them."

"But you aim to place Rebecca and Magnus' crimes on someone innocent!" he lashed out.

Victoria darted from her chair and strode over to him in quick steps. "Careful, Cullen. Don't make me regret ever giving you a second chance."

"Then why am I at your side, if you will not even consider my advice?" he demanded in a low growl. When the queen did not respond, Edward took her in his arms despite himself. "Because this is what you want from me?" he asked in a rumble.

The queen could not help as she melted against him, melted into his embrace and Edward bit back an unsavory comment, understanding just what the queen, his sister, saw in him.

"I wish the circumstances were different, believe me. But I find myself in a difficult position. I only want the best for Angloa and for her people," she said while staring into his eyes. While there had been an emptiness within Victoria before, now Edward saw something kindle within her as he held her.

"I cannot give you what you seek," he said, releasing her. Victoria regarded him with anything but sisterly affection. And how could she? She had no idea who he was. The masked man stepped away from her and the queen squared her jaw.

If she could not have happiness with him, she would seek out the only other thing that mattered. "My cousin has to answer for the crimes of his parents and his own crimes. It will be a just and fair trial, Cullen, believe me. I never wished to go through with it, just as I had no wish to strip you of your old title. But I am now the leader of this country, and sometimes I must make difficult decisions. I am sure you understand."

Edward did understand. He knew that, whatever he said to her, she would never listen to him. While she held some semblance of affection for him, it was not strong enough for him to make her see reason. He only hoped Rosalie was luckier in that prospect.

Edward bowed and left her standing alone in her Throne Room. He wondered if she saw what her quest for power was doing to herself.

He pushed aside the shame as his hope for redeeming her dwindled.

* * *

There was only one place she knew to find her at that time of day. The sun had started setting and the chapel was empty as per usual. It was a perfect time to visit it without curious onlookers.

Victoria didn't go there to pray. She went there because it was the only place she would be left alone. Except when her sister would seek her out.

Rosalie had kept to her room most of the day until a disheartened Edward Cullen had reluctantly revealed his failure. It rested on her shoulders now. Even though he thought himself unable to convince her sister, he still held hope that Rosalie could.

"Did you come to pray, or did you come to seek me out?" she asked with her tense back to her.

Somewhere within the chapel, they heard the flutter of wings. The doves liked to nestle on the highest beams of the structure. Their cooing was often the regular song of the vast space.

"Your announcement today made quite an impression," she smiled as she sat down next to her. Victoria listened to the rustle of clothes as she sighed.

"Our cousin has to pay for his crimes," she answered.

"And what crimes are those?" Rosalie asked, turning to meet her sister. She was only met by the profile of a proud and relentless woman.

"Ignoring his parents' crime before and after taking the throne. Not giving the throne to me when his father passed, as should have been the right thing to do."

"Jasper was ten when his own father died."

"And you and I were younger when mother passed. And we knew nothing of the world when father passed," she spat.

"Victoria," Rosalie began, placing a careful hand on her sister's arm. "You do not have to do this. There is no one to fight against. No one is out to take your throne. I am sure that if you give Jasper the chance, he would openly proclaim you queen and ask to live in peace. If he did that, then I know Athar will call off his armies and this useless confrontation will end."

Victoria turned to look at her sister for the first time. "You are so naïve, Rosalie" she whispered, a sadness washing over her as pride slowly disappeared. "Naïve and good and nothing like me." Victoria turned away from her sister, as if ashamed of herself. Ever since her talk with Cullen, a few hours earlier, she had started questioning herself. Victoria knew that she did what she did because a small part of her was afraid of losing the power she had gained. But she also wanted for Angloa to prosper and for justice to be served.

Rosalie took her sister's hands in her own. "I am your sister, Victoria. Nothing will ever change that. Let someone go and speak with Jasper—give him the chance for freedom. He only has to acknowledge what his parents did and acknowledge you as the rightful queen, right?" she asked. Victoria shook her head, slowly.

"No, it is better if no one speaks with our cousin. He has been unwell as of late," she answered as her face twisted into a frown.

Rosalie's lips settled into a thin line. She knew she would have to go against her sister's wishes on this matter. Someone had to speak with Jasper, and she knew exactly who that should be.

 _May 25th_

"Remember, Cullen, all you need to do is to convince my cousin to acknowledge Victoria as the rightful queen and she will let everything else pass. She has chosen a different path—a better path."

"You got through to her," he stated. Edward could not believe he was about to speak with Jasper. Somehow, he found it hard to believe.

"Victoria… doesn't really know we are doing this," Rosalie acknowledged.

Edward stopped right in his tracks. "What?"

"But it will be fine. Once you speak with Jasper and make him understand everything, she will forgive us. And I have bribed the daylights out of the guards," Rosalie said. But Edward was still unsure. However, there was nothing more he wanted than to speak with Jasper.

"Tomorrow is the trial and the palace is in unrest. I will watch over Miss Swan. By my side, nothing will happen to her, you have my word."

"Very well, Your Highness." Edward listened to his instincts, and they told him to go ahead with the plan.

Rosalie nodded and stared at his broad back as he walked away from her, some guards joining him to escort him to the dungeons.

It was as eerie as he remembered it. The same guard escorted him down the hole, taking him to the same cell as Athar had been kept in.

"A cell fit for a king, ey?" he laughed as he handed Edward a torch. "I will keep away, by order of the princess. But if I suspect ye are doin' somethin' to release the fellow, I will not hesitate to smack ye down!"

"I'd like to see you try," Edward rumbled at the older man. The keeper of the dungeons swallowed visibly and unlocked the door, letting the masked man step through.

Last time he had been there, Athar had been taken down to the dungeons by charge of treason. Now it was Jasper who sat on the flimsy bed, stoically staring at one corner, ignoring whoever entered the confinements of his prison.

The once king of Angloa had seen better days. His light hair was oily and shaggy. His beard had grown, and his face looked hollowed, shadows stretching over his cheeks and temples.

"Do they not feed you, Your Majesty?" asked a deep voice from the shadows. Jasper stared, startled, in the direction of that known voice. He never thought he would hear it again.

"Cullen?" he rasped. Jasper' lips were dry and parched from lack of drinking.

"In the flesh," Edward said, sitting down and handed a pouch filled with water to the king. Jasper grasped at it and emptied its contents. "It seems they do not feed you," he muttered as he looked at the defeated man.

"I cannot find my appetite, Edward," the king sighed in defeat. His voice wavered as he looked away. Jasper still bore his fine clothes, now torn and dirtied from the poor conditions of the cell.

"Are you informed of what happens in the palace?" Edward asked carefully.

"I know my cousin wants to hold a trial against me and place all fault on me. I know you were stripped of your title as well as of Lord Braun's demise. I know Athar is still loyal to me, trying to get me out of here," he said in a dismissive tone.

Edward squared his jaw. "Do you want to get out of here?"

Jasper shook his head. "I can never go back to being king—not after how Victoria has made me look. The people would never accept me again. Even if I am rotting away in here, an inexplicable burden has been lifted off my shoulders," he sighed in relief. "Yet, I cannot accept that Victoria should be queen."

"You know why I am here, then?"

"If it is to convince me to submit to her then I will not. I am sorry, Cullen," Jasper responded.

"Not even if she were to offer you a pardon?"

"I never thought you so naïve, my friend," Jasper laughed, despite himself. The sound bounced off the walls, lacking any warmth.

"That trial is already set, I will not walk away a free man."

"What do you mean?" Edward asked cautiously.

"I mean that I know too much. Where do you think I get all my information? For the past few weeks, Victoria has come down to the dungeons to gloat and make me miserable. She has revealed anything she feels like revealing because she expects to lock me away in here forever. You know, I am surprised she let you see me, knowing well I will not keep any of her secrets."

Edward shifted in his seat. "She doesn't know I am here. It was your other cousin, Rosalie, who managed to get me to speak with you. And I very much wanted a word with you. Part of the reason that you find yourself here is because of me."

Jasper only chuckled at his statement. "You value yourself too highly, Cullen."

"It does not excuse that I went against your direct order when leaving Wessport."

Jasper nodded. "That you did," he answered in a curt voice. "And here we are."

"Here we are." They stared around the cell, still finding the whole situation unbelievable.

"I know you are a good man, Cullen, better than I. But submitting to her was a mistake. You have changed since leaving Wessport, my friend. You may not see it, Edward, but you are running from something. I can see it in your eyes."

"Leave it, Your Majesty," Edward said with a twinge of venom in his tone.

Jasper put up his hands, letting go of the subject momentarily. "There is one thing that has always plagued my mind," the king said.

Edward did not like the way Jasper was speaking as if he was accepting his loss of freedom.

"You speak as if your fate has already been decided."

"It has. I know you will not get me out of here because you want to evade a war. You were a damn good General, Cullen, damn good. One of the reasons you were so good was because you hated your job. You do not want to see Angloa torn apart again. And we both know what would happen if a civil war broke out. It is what she wants after all—"

"I know she conspired with the English," he cut off. Edward suspected that Jasper was, somehow, already filled in in that department.

"Good friend, there are so many things about that woman you don't know that would surprise you," Jasper said. "She is vile and rotten to the core. I am certain she tries to fight against it. But things have gone too far. The things she has revealed to me these last few weeks have opened up my eyes to what kind of woman she really is." The way Jasper stared emptily in front of himself unsettled Edward.

"Which is?"

"Victoria is the living spirit of my mother. She may never accept it, but when I see her, I only see Rebecca."

"There are some who think she can be redeemed." He knew it was not the case with him anymore. But Rosalie still wanted to believe in her sister—still wanted to try one final time.

"I wish that could be the case as well. But it can never be. Victoria has gone down a path she will never recover from. The things she has done, which are many, can never be forgiven—I will not forgive her, nor will I ever bend the knee to her."

Edward wondered what else the queen had done that would solicit such a reaction from her own cousin. "I know you are curious about her."

"The queen only wants to be proclaimed the rightful heir to the throne. I am sure if you do this, she will pardon you."

"I will never do so. My cousin has murdered and conspired enough for a lifetime. Did you know that it was _she_ who orchestrated Lord Swan's imprisonment?"

His eyes widened visibly behind the mask. The cell pushed against them, the dark bricks seemingly tumbling out of place. Did he imagine it or did thunder roar in the distance in protest?

"This cannot be so," Edward mouthed in disbelief.

"A few years ago, Lord Saxton's wife had overheard my cousin Victoria plotting against me when she thought no one was listening. She told this to Lord Saxton who had confronted the man Victoria had been speaking with—Lord Alistair. The moment Victoria got wind of this, she had Saxton framed and his family killed, placing the blame on him. Saxton managed to reach out to one that would listen to him: Charles Swan. But he was also falsely accused. I never knew at the time, she never directly accused him. It was always done by someone else; mostly through Cardinal Thorpe. He must have been in on this for a long time."

"I thought it was Braun who had Swan falsely accused of treason because he wanted the lands of Cadherra?"

"Braun was only in on it and helped orchestrate those charges. The real mastermind has and always will be Victoria."

"And she told you all this?" Edward asked in disbelief as the flames of the torch flickered in the darkness.

"As shamelessly as I am telling you now. She has been treating her talks with me as a sort of confession."

"Is there more?" Edward wondered how Isabella would react if she ever found out. He wondered if Rosalie knew of this as well.

"How much time do you have?" Jasper asked as he smiled. When Edward did not answer, he settled back in the bed and took a deep breath. "She has had many people going up against her killed. I think she even killed my mother, but I cannot be sure of that—she will not say. But the most revolting thing of all is what she did to her own sibling," Jasper lamented.

"Her Highness has never spoken negatively about her sister," Edward started, growing nervous. His heart skipped a few beats as Jasper continued speaking. The once king had no one else who would listen to him and he was determined to make Edward see what Victoria really was.

"Not _that_ sibling. I know you know of whom I speak," Jasper whispered, making sure no one listened to them. When he saw Cullen square his jaw, he knew that the general was fully aware of what he was speaking of. "I am sure Athar told you about it when he was kept here. He told me after you left, about the child of Leonore Valois," the once king whispered eerily.

Edward had no idea why Athar would have revealed such a critical thing to Jasper. When he did not speak, Jasper continued. "My uncle and his second wife had a child, born after the death of my uncle. It was kept hidden for a long time—it still is. For the longest of time, Athar believed it was born a girl. But Leonore had been fooling him all that time. To this day, he still does not know the truth. Victoria found out, through my mother. My mother was resourceful, and it was revealed to her that Leonore Valois gave birth to a son: the legitimate ruler of Angloa, who just happened to be related to French royalty, albeit not at the time. My mother wanted to bring the boy in, quietly, and subdue him—make him loyal to my family, as Victoria had been made. But Victoria got to him first. She was afraid that she would be further cast aside if he was ever made known. She sent assassins to kill him and his mother."

Edward fought hard against any visible effects the words had on him. But inside, within the depths of his mind, everything screamed. He grabbed the side of the chair as his vision blurred slightly and nausea took hold.

His own sister had sent men to kill him.

His gaze wandered to his feet. His mother was dead because of Victoria. Nothing could explain the utter destruction that knowledge caused within him. Something broke then, a sharp snap that echoed throughout his soul as the information processed. Edward would rather have been kept blissfully unaware for the rest of his life than know of this.

"Does Her Highness know of this?" his dark tone could not help but shake slightly.

"Rosalie? I do not think so and thank God for that. Rosalie loves her sister and she looks past all her wrongs, thinking she can still be redeemed. It is the blindness of blood and it will eventually cause her own demise," Jasper lamented. "Just as it has with me. I should have known it was Victoria from the start. It was so blatantly obvious, and it should have been to more of us. But I pushed any such notion aside because she was my family. We all have eventually fallen into Philip Fell's tragic shoes: both Rosalie and I. We have refused to think badly of our own blood and now we are trapped."

Edward got up from the chair without a word and stalked around in the small cell. The fire from the torch almost taunted him as it danced dangerously. He wanted to scream and break anything within his near vicinity.

"This changes things," he said to himself with such anger and force in his voice that Jasper recoiled from the masked man. Edward' vision blurred as his whole world shifted in an instant.

"Do you know what I mean now?" Jasper responded, having heard what the masked man muttered. He saw General Cullen push against the wall as if lost completely. Edward had never before felt so alone and lost in the world. He didn't know what to believe anymore. He wanted Victoria to be redeemable, but the deeper he searched through her secrets, the more he realized that would never happen. "She cannot be saved, Cullen," sounded the haunting words from a man who'd learned too much. Jasper bore the curse of knowledge and he had just passed it on to a most unwilling recipient.

"Whatever you thought you saw in her, it isn't there anymore. You need to get as far away from her as possible."

How would he do that? How could he explain any of this to Rosalie? She would never accept what her sister had done. Edward did not want her to know what Victoria had been—was—capable of. A part of him wanted Rosalie to always look out for her sister. But he knew he had to tell her something.

Edward had walked into that room with a plan, only to found it was now crumbling all around him. He understood if what Jasper said was true, there was no way Victoria would let him walk away, knowing what he knew. She would most likely not kill him— it would make him a martyr. She would only keep him locked away for the rest of his life after having placed all the blame on him.

"I know you do not wish war for Angloa, and neither do I, believe me. But a civil war will come, for that is what Victoria wants. She wishes to vanquish all her enemies once and for all—this coming war is an excuse for her to secure her hold on the throne. You need to get Rosalie away from court, she will never be safe here. The more paranoid Victoria grows, the more danger Rosalie faces."

"And what of you?"

"I am under strict security, guarded day and night, there is no chance you could get me away. And even if you did, what then, Cullen? Would you deliver me to Athar and stand on the sideline, watching as Victoria and I tear at each other's throats?"

"I… I do not wish for a war."

"This isn't about what you want, this is about what is right and what has to be done."

"Fighting over something so pesky as a throne is never right."

"Truer words have never been spoken," Jasper chuckled. "But we cannot all afford to take the same philosophical stance on the matter. I was born a prince and crowned a king. But I never was one and neither was my father. The last true king of Angloa died decades ago."

Edward dropped his covered head into his hands in utter defeat. Minutes passed by in silence as Jasper let him absorb everything he had told him.

He knew that he had been running from this for a long time. A confrontation for the crown was the last thing he wanted. He never thought he'd be involved in a war of succession. It was the reason for the mask—so that anything like this might never happen. But destiny was a funny thing, and it seemed unavoidable. Edward knew then that whatever he did, a confrontation would happen—had to happen, with or without him.

"I have no choice," Edward whispered with reluctance.

"The time has come for you to save Angloa once more. But this time, it is from herself," Jasper stated.

He had never seen the masked man take on a mission in such an unwilling manner before. "Because you are the true king Angloa needs, is that it?" the masked man muttered.

But Jasper shook his head. "I represent the past. Victoria even more so. We need someone on the throne with the country's best in mind, someone wise and not easily guided in the wrong way," he said enigmatically. "My era and that of my line is over, I desperately have tried to hang onto what little power I ever had. The time has come for someone new to take the crown."

"Rosalie Fell would never agree to it."

"But she knows her duty to her country. She will do what is necessary."

"You are asking her to fight her sister," Edward started.

"Tell her what I told you, make her see reason. I know you are good at that."

There were suddenly so many things Edward wanted to tell Jasper. He wanted to reveal his true self, make him see who he really was. But would Jasper ever accept him then? Would he see him as another player in the game? So far, Jasper respected him because Edward was no one: he had no ground to wish for more power. If he found out he was really William Fell, all that might change.

"You know, Rosalie will need your guidance—she will need you by her side," Jasper sighed, looking at one particularly dark corner. "There… was something Lord Athar used to always say about my uncle: something Philip Fell always used to tell him. Ah, but I cannot remember it now. It must have been unimportant. I wished to offer you some last advice before parting ways."

"I am not giving up on you, Your Majes—"

"Jasper, Edward. I am not your king nor prince now. I wish only to be parted as your friend."

Edward bowed at the great honor bestowed upon him. "But you will always be my king and you are a true and just king—"

Loud booms sounded on the door. "We've got company, lad! Best ye get away before they find ye here!" said the old guard.

"Make haste now, and tell Rosalie what I have revealed to you!" Jasper said as the door was opened. Edward was whisked out and as the door closed behind him, he could not help but let all the thoughts within his mind crush down on him like a raging tempest.

* * *

 _April 23rd, 1503 – Wessport_

Victoria pressed closer to the door, trying to discern each and every word that was spoken. Rebecca Fell had been sitting in dumbfounded silence for the last five minutes. The news that had been broken to her was indeed grave.

"And you are certain of this?" the dowager queen asked.

"Leonore Valois is still in Angloa and she has a son," came the other voice. When Victoria had seen the queen rush through the halls of the palace with some unknown man, she had instinctively followed them. The wardrobe smelled of wet fur and moldy cloth. But she ignored her momentary discomfort, making sure to catch every part of their conversation.

"How can that be?" the queen asked. Victoria wallowed in seeing the woman so baffled. But she knew what this news might bode for her as well—it would be another obstacle in her way for her birthright. She was still the oldest daughter of her father, not counting Edmund—the forgotten prince. Rebecca had erased any trace of his existence once she had claimed power in the country.

"The queen was pregnant with Philip Fell's son when she fled Wessport, a decade ago. Athar has been hiding her and her child in plain sight."

"I need to take that child in immediately," Rebecca snapped—the remark was directed at no one in particular.

"Your Majesty?" the man asked. "Is it not better to dispose of the child in Sorossa rather than going through the trouble of bringing him in?"

"If you know of this child's existence, then so will others. I need to show court who is in control. That boy must be mine—for now. If he is uncooperative we might find other uses for him. But having him be completely loyal to Jasper is more beneficial."

"I will send the rangers to retrieve him, Your Majesty."

Victoria held her breath as the chairs scraped against the stone floor. They walked across the room to the door and promptly shut it behind them, speaking of the matter. "… in one of Lord Saxton's lesser-known estates, I believe. In the heart of Sorossa…" the voices faded away as they walked down the hallway.

Victoria determinedly rushed out of her hiding place and went for a panel by the tapestry in the wall. She quickly made her way to her chambers where she had Oscar Braun called for.

"Your Highness," he bowed in a grand gesture as he was let into her room. He wondered if Victoria would let him into her bed again—last time had been quite the experience for him. But the princess curled her nose at him.

"Lord Braun, I need you to dispose of someone," she stated with an indifferent air.

"Oh?" he was surprised at how casually she treated the whole situation. Braun had always told her how he could make anything happen. And he had also learned not to ask any questions. "Who do you wish to dispose of?"

"A small boy, about ten years of age. All I know is that he is being hidden away in Sorossa by Lord Saxton and Lord Athar."

Braun rose an eyebrow. He wondered if this was some cover-up—if it was a bastard son of some powerful lord. Or, maybe even the bastard son of Magnus Fell himself that the other lords wished to use against Rebecca. But he did not understand exactly why Victoria wanted to help Rebecca when she loathed her so.

"Consider it done, Your Highness," he bowed again ceremoniously.

And with the flick of a finger, Victoria was certain she had gotten rid of a problem that could quickly have gotten out of hand. "Let me know when it is done, Braun. Your men cannot fail," she stated.

"I only employ the best, rest assured. The boy is already as good as dead."

"Good," the princess muttered. She smirked as she imagined what Rebecca's reaction would be when her rangers found the boy slaughtered before she'd been able to get to him. The conjured image provoked a slight chuckle within the young woman.

It was only then that the princess stopped herself.

Victoria's eyes widened in slow horror. She trembled as she realized what she had just ordered Braun to do. That boy was her father's son—her own brother!

Victoria turned around, immediately regretting her decision. It was better to have the boy imprisoned until she had secured the crown. But he was already gone from his room, leaving as silently as he had arrived. She knew it would be too late to stop him now. Once Braun set something in motion, nothing could prevent it.

"What have I done?" she asked herself in a broken voice as she fell to the floor. "What have I done?"

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter done! I hope you liked it! If you did, please let me know, I always appreciate a nice little review ;)**

 **I was quicker with getting out this chapter and did not have the same amount of time to look for grammar faults or faults in the writing. So if you see any such thing, please let me know as soon as possible! Christmas is upon us soon (next week over here since we celebrate it on the 24th in Sweden!) and I would like to have finished the fic by then!**

 **We will see if it is possible!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	25. Chapter 25

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 25_

 _September 5th, 1510 – Coast of Italy_

 _Dear William,_

 _If you read this, I will be dead._

 _This letter means that I couldn't tell you everything myself. For that, I am sorry. It was never meant to be that way. There are many things I wish to tell you, many things that will not be enough to fit in one letter._

 _You wanted answers. Well, here they are._

 _Your true name—your full name—is William Philip Fell. That is how your mother had you baptized._

 _I do not know how much Sofia has told you or if you even know who the Fell family is. But know that they are kings and queens. Blue blood runs through your veins. You are the child of Leonore Valois and Philip Fell—his last living_ _ **son**_ _and the heir to the throne of Angloa._

 _Know now the reason for not telling this earlier. It is a lot to process. Your very existence was dangerous and, I would dare say, it still is._

 _Telling the whole story of your life cannot be covered in one letter. Your mother was smuggled out of the palace of Wessport the same night your father died by a man only loyal to him—Lord Thomas Athar. His motives for helping her were selfless at first, or so I like to believe. The moment he discovered your mother was pregnant with you, he developed grand plans for you. This is the reason for feigning you were a girl all these years. Your mother always protected you, even when you didn't know it, William._

 _Your uncle, Magnus, took the throne after your father's death. Sofia will no doubt inform you more about him and the rest of your family. What you need to know is that they wanted you dead. The night we fled the cottage in Sorossa was the night they found us—found you. I was to take you to your ancestral seat in France. But I never made it back. I can only hope Sofia has taken good care of you, has raised you to be the exceptional young man your mother wanted you to be._

 _Your mother always wanted you to have a calm and quiet life—not burdened or troubled like your father's. She feared the power and the throne that once belonged to him because she saw what it did to those close to him. Your mother, Leonore, suffered grandly for the power and riches of the crown she married into._

 _She would not want the same thing for you._

 _But, I shall not tell you what to do. If you desire to return to Angloa and reclaim your birthright, then do so with a clear conscience. If you wish to return to your family in France I know they would receive you with open arms._

 _Leonore Valois Fell did everything in her power to protect you, William. Do not cast that away._

 _She loved you._

 _Claudine_

William gripped at the letter and read it several times. His eyes clouded as the sentences merged together into an intangible mess. In the course of a few minutes, his whole world had turned upside down.

They sat off the road, on a few stones and had settled down for some light supper. Sofia watched him read the letter in silence, slicing an apple and awaiting his reaction in anticipation.

"What did she mean by you telling me more of my uncle and family?" he demanded in harsh and brusque words. William looked out from beneath the hood, the sweltering sun making the thick wool of his cloak roast him alive.

"It is a lot to take in, _amor_ —"

"I want answers," he growled, his mood growing foul, his way becoming stiff. Ever since the tragedy of Constantinople—when Sofia had to kill those people who had seen his face and recognized him— William had become strangely distant.

"Your uncle took your father's throne the same day he died. Your half-sisters, Victoria and Rosalie, were cast aside and put under strict supervision by Magnus' wife, Rebecca.

William read the letter again, chewing on his lip. Sofia put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Do you want to return to Angloa? It is your cousin that sits on the throne now." The sixteen-year-old finally could not take it anymore and pushed back the hood, his face flushed with the heat.

"Maybe," he started. The look in Sofia's eyes, however, told a different story. "It seems, however, that you do not wish for it."

The gypsy chuckled. More silver streaks flowed in her messy mane and she bit her teeth together.

"It is not I who decides, William—not this time."

He looked at the letter and then promptly folded the parchment. "Why do we not return to Spain? This letter changes nothing, you know? I have no ambition for my father's throne. I will do as my mother wished and keep away from it," he said after much thought.

"Do you not want to return East?"

"There is nothing left for me there."

"What happened in Constantinople was a tragedy, William, but—"

The harsh glance he sent her way silenced the gypsy. Sofia nodded after a while, moving to stand. "I suspect we should find a ship, then."

William was about to head off to the road, waiting for her to pack her food.

"Wait," Sofia said, walking up next to him. "Here." She handed him the thing he abhorred the most. The ugly and patchy mask stared back at him. Whenever he wore it, he looked like a scarecrow.

"I said I'd wear the hood, but I'm not putting on that mask again," he spat.

"Two Angloans recognized your face, for some reason. You must look like someone in your family. If you do not want to be involved with the Fells, then let us not take any chances."

"Aye, but we're not going to Angloa, we're going to Spain," he huffed. The empty eyeholes of the mask stared back eerily.

"They recognized you in Constantinople, they might as well do it here or in Spain. We will figure this out, but you need to be patient first, please."

He knew why she begged. Sofia had no wish to plunge her knife into anyone else's heart. She had done so out of instinct, knowing it had to be done. Alas, the deaths were still on her conscience.

"And there is one more thing," she dared while he put on the burlap mask. It fit loosely over his head and he could scarcely see out of it. "We should stop referring to you as William from now," she said in an apologetic manner.

"But… it is all I have left of myself, the name my mother left me with."

"You as well as I know it is better to play it safe. If anyone got wind of a man calling himself William, walking around with a burlap sack on his head, some very paranoid people might get suspicious. Let us not tempt fate."

"And what should I call myself?"

Sofia smiled coyly. "Edward has worked for you so far, why not keep going with that?"

 _August 6th – 1514, Málaga, Spain_

The only reason they had been invited was that Sofia was the last person to turn to. Edward and Sofia had been in Malaga for a while, still getting comfortable and adjusted to their new home.

A local nobleman's wife had fallen ill during the warmest week of the summer. Physicians were nowhere to be found and the priests all said she had been touched by the devil. Only one stubborn gypsy dared approach the woman and treat her illness. Sofia made a living out of many things. Healing was something she excelled at but did not practice often. People would often be hasty to scream witchcraft when she healed the sick and wounded. Superstitious folk would grow suspicious of her and accuse her of using her gypsy magic. Therefore, so as not to be thrown out of every city she visited, Sofia rarely sold her expertise in the healing arts.

But when food and other work were scarce, there was little else to be done.

And this time she had made an exception. No one wanted to hire Edward—a masked enigma walking around sulking all day. And she could not make money elsewhere either.

It was therefore that Sofia had dragged Edward with her to the prestigious Montalvo household. The husband did not even care that the masked man entered and helped Sofia with her boxes of herbs and poultices.

They were led into a _sala_ with dark furnishing and tapestries everywhere. The windows were open to let the cool air filter in.

"Listen here, Edward," Sofia said, turning around to face him. "I will go to Señor Montalvo's wife and you will remain here. Do not touch anything. We need this money," she chastised him.

"I am not a child," he frowned behind the mask.

She looked at him with a severe frown. For the first time, Edward realized how much she had aged in the last few years. There was a stress present in her that she hid well. "We will start with getting you a new mask once the master of this household pays us," she said in a pensive manner. "That burlap monstrosity is giving us both nightmares."

"And it itches," Edward added. His voice had dropped lower ever since entering his teens. But he liked how grave and commanding he could sound whenever he dropped it a few octaves more. Now Edward always spoke in his rich and deep baritone tremor.

"Indeed," the Spanish woman said, blowing a stray lock out of her eyes. "No rummaging around here, understood? Last time you did that someone thought the scarecrow had come to life," she said.

"Don't remind me," he muttered. "Let me know if there is anything you need," Edward said as she closed the door after her. Sofia never answered him, mainly because they both knew she would not need it.

Of course, Edward would not listen to her. Instead, he started trekking through the room until it led him to a long hallway.

Horseshoe arches with windows showed an exotic garden as the rays of the sun lit it up on the right side. The lower part of the wall was lined with fine mosaics. Tapestries tapered down to the floor and various pots with a variety of colorful flowers hugged the right wall.

The left wall—lined in reddish stone and mahogany, held various portraits. They were all paintings of men that Edward had never seen before.

"You! What are you doing here?" someone asked in a harsh tone. An older man approached him and questioned him further in fast Spanish.

"I am sorry señor, my _mother_ is tending to the mistress of the house, relieving her of her ailment," he stated. The man took a step back once he neared the tall mask man. Edward rose an eyebrow behind the mask. He loomed slightly over the man and suppressed a grin as the other took yet another step back.

"Well, erm, you should not be walking about like such."

"I will return. It was just that these paintings caught my eye," he said, turning to point at the portraits. They were all paintings of men, looking proud and polished as they stood to pose with either glinting swords, overflowing capes or positioned on a map.

The man followed his gaze and his own harsh demeanor softened. "Ah, yes. My master likes to collect these—copies of paintings done of the monarchs in Europe. It is a nice gallery, but I cannot imagine for the life of me why he would want such a collection. Here, of course, we have our very own glorious king, Charles V, may he live a long and prosperous life." The man continued talking, getting caught up in his own stories. "I saw him once in person, you know? It was from a very far distance, but I saw him!" the man said as he arched a dark bushy eyebrow.

"Indeed," Edward said. They continued talking and walking along the gallery—Edward's previous intrusion completely forgotten.

Edward eyed the monarch. Most looked like pompous fools to him, until they got to a painting that almost made his jaw fall to the ground.

It was as if looking into a mirror.

Edward's heart sped up as the familiar face stared back at him. Sweat poured from behind the mask as nausea overtook. "W-who is that?" he asked as he pointed, trying to mask his shaking voice.

The man followed his finger and chuckled. "This is the problem with collecting things like these. This was the king of Angloa until at least two decades ago. My master really needs to update his collection."

"The king of Angloa?" Edward had to swallow hard, not believing what he was hearing.

"Indeed, alas not the current one. This would be two kings ago, the one who lived to be so old!"

"Pray tell, what was his name?"

"Well, let us see how my memory fares. I do remember that it was the Italian master Bellini who painted the original. My master did indeed find someone who was able to copy the original well enough. But my master has seen the original—he says he lacked the glint in the eye that the original had—"

"The _name_ ," Edward growled through gritted teeth.

The man scratched his head. "Something with an F?" he started. "There are over twenty paintings here, _muchacho_ , I cannot remember all of them."

"Was it _Felipe_?" he asked.

The man snapped his fingers. "Indeed it was! Felipe, or Philip, as they call him in their homeland. Philip Fell, a fine king, from what I have heard."

Edward's stomach dropped fully now as he stared back at the painting of his father. This explained so many things. But it also revealed something else to him. He was stuck wearing this mask. While he had not been the exact likeness to his father as a teen, Edward suspected he looked much more like him now. Although, his hair was a shade lighter and his eyes were a different color, but they bore the same strong jaw and refined nose.

He quickly left the man and went back to wait for Sofia. Once she was done he dragged her to the painting and showed it to her. It took Sofia a full ten seconds before she realized who the painting represented. "Oh," she had said.

"You do not just look like your father," she had said. "The resemblance is uncanny."

Edward's whole life had just changed in the flow of a few minutes. While he had gotten more answers, he almost wished he hadn't. Ignorance could sometimes be bliss. Edward now wished back to the time before knowing anything of his heritage.

"If this painting can be found in the remote house of some country nobleman, rest assured that more have a copy of it in their possession or have at least seen it," Sofia said.

"I can never remove this mask?" he lamented.

"Well, look at it this way; with the money I just made we can get a more comfortable mask for you," Sofia said. She tried to cheer him up, but Edward could not drag his eyes away from the painting—from the eerie mirrorlike image that was displayed before him.

* * *

 _May 24th, 1520_

Isabella recoiled as he offered his hand. She frowned while arching an eyebrow. There was no possible way that she would ever accept a man such as him.

"You may smirk all you like, Lord Alistair, but I will never marry you," she offered in a flat tone.

He had come to visit. But Isabella knew it was more than a visit. After Edward's stunt in the gardens the previous day, Victoria had sent Alistair to guard her as her watchdog.

"Indeed, my dear. The queen did say you had a choice in the matter. But, remember, if you do not marry me, all lands and titles once held by your family are forfeited to the crown," he smirked. "And your Cullen has declared his loyalty to Her Majesty. You have nowhere left to go."

"I would rather Cadherra fall into the hands of the crown than be under your jurisdiction," she hurled back. Lady Savoie cleared her voice as she put down the teacup. The queen had been so kind as to bestow Isabella with some of her own ladies-in-waiting, in preparation for her wedding day.

"Surely, Miss Swan, this is not the way to properly behave. What did they teach you in that barbaric land?" Amanda sneered, her dark eyes trailing over Isabella's relaxed form. She could not stand that the girl behaved so casually around them. Whatever they said, whatever masked insults or threats they hurled her way, her face never moved a muscle.

"Details of my captivity should not be shared in such polite company," Isabella answered, pleased with herself when she saw Amanda pale and the other woman cough slightly.

Alistair cleared his voice. The young woman got up and ignored the half dozen people invading her drawing room. She went to stare out the window, asking herself what Edward might be up to. She was absolutely certain he was up to something but was not sure of what.

As the day progressed, there was another visitor at her door as soon as Alistair and his company had finally left her. Isabella had told the maids not to welcome anyone. But they listened little to her. The door was opened against her wishes, only to reveal Princess Rosalie.

The youngest princess dressed in muted earthy tones, her hair braided into a bun and a thin scarf placed on the crown of her head. The rosary was, as always, hanging around her neck and she would grip it every so often. Her gray eyes trailed across the room until finding the young woman.

"I hope I do not intrude, Miss Swan," she said with a refined tone. Isabella swiftly got up, the blue damask fabric of her gown falling around her feet as she bowed deeply.

"Your Highness," she uttered in disbelief. Why on earth would Rosalie Fell visit her?

"May I enter?"

"Please," she answered, motioning for the princess to make herself comfortable on the low leather sofa. Rosalie dismissed the maids with the flick of a finger, leaving Isabella alone in the room with her.

A tense silence followed. Isabella wondered if Victoria had now sent her sister to keep an eye on her. Rosalie never diverted with her gaze, always keeping her eyes on Isabella.

"I am sorry," she finally said.

The younger woman frowned in puzzlement. "For what?" Rosalie wanted to tell her the whole truth—the secret she had kept for her sister. Maybe if Rosalie had spoken up, Isabella's father would never have been executed. But before she could give herself away, the princess swiftly managed to control her own emotions, correcting herself.

"Your marriage to Alistair cannot have been happy news," she commented.

Isabella arched an eyebrow. "I thought my mother would approve since it seems I traded a masked beast with no real noble blood for a handsome aristocrat like Lord Alistair. But she despises that even more." When Renée had heard the news she had almost fainted, her state too delicate to further speak of the subject. Isabella suspected her mother now actually approved of Edward, after everything they had been through.

"How fares your dear mother?" the princess asked with genuine concern.

"She is worse every day. I think the past few years' struggles have finally caught up with her."

"I am sorry to hear that."

Chocolate eyes squinted as they analyzed every expression on her visage. "Your Highness will forgive me, but I do not believe you have come here just to express your condolences to my mother."

Rosalie chuckled. "You are perceptive, much like Cullen." Isabella arched an eyebrow as Edward was mentioned.

"Her Majesty did not send you, did she," she stated, warmth suddenly spreading within her as she realized Edward was putting his plan into place: Rosalie had to be the one who would get them out of the palace.

"Not exactly. I came because I promised Edward I would watch over you." Before Isabella could ask any questions, Rosalie put up a hand. "Now is not the time. I cannot say much, and I have already given away things best left unsaid. The time will come, Miss Swan. And it will be soon."

Now was the time to slowly start bringing Victoria back from the darkness. Edward just had to have convinced Jasper to acknowledge Victoria.

"I never questioned nor inquired about what he has been doing these past few days. It has gotten me curious, but I trust in him. I will be patient a bit longer," Isabella said.

"This will all come to an end soon, Miss Swan. The hurt you have suffered will end, I will make sure of it. My sister will see reason and, hopefully, set everything straight."

"Hopefully," Isabella murmured. There was little left to say. Rosalie was not much for small talk and the hours drifted by as they patiently waited for Edward.

* * *

Rosalie had, as per Edward's request, managed to gather both Isabella and Lord Theodor in her personal chambers in secret.

The evening progressed as the three of them waited for Edward to come. Theodor's eyebrows had shot up to his hairline as the princess of the kingdom had revealed herself behind a hidden panel to his room, urging that he follow her.

"I must insist that you reveal to me why we have been brought here in such secrecy. If Her Majesty were ever to find out—" Theodor began, only to be interrupted by Isabella.

"Once Edward arrives, all will be revealed," she said in such a harsh manner that Theodor was silenced. His wounds had healed somewhat, but he still feared the dungeon's torture chamber. It was not a place he particularly wanted to visit once more. He still remembered the glee Thorpe had given him as he had been dragged away by guards. The cardinal had been responsible for his suffering and his fall from grace in the eyes of the queen. Theodor knew he was more of a prisoner than a guest at this point. Getting away from Wessport was now his main priority. The time for diplomacy was drawing to an end—they had all wanted to ignore it, but it had crept up on them like some strange sickness.

Rosalie was nervous as well. It would indeed look strange if she was found housing such people like Theodor Glovendale and Isabella Swan.

But they waited. Once night was upon them, Edward finally came, his shoulders sloped, and his general frame was that of defeat.

"What news of my cousin, Cullen?" asked Rosalie as he closed the door behind him, slipping into a nearby chair, close to the fire.

"You saw King Jasper?!" Theodor exclaimed, his heartbeat increasing tenfold. Isabella was taken aback as well, but she did not voice her surprise.

"We need to get away from here, Your Highness," he finally said, meeting Rosalie's questioning gaze. "There is nothing we can say or do that will ever make your sister change her mind." Tension arose in the cramped room, the flames licking the interior of the fireplace as if they were the gates of the underworld.

"What did my cousin say?" the princess asked, with more fear and alarm evident in her voice. Theodor and Isabella kept looking back and forth from Edward to Rosalie.

"It is not safe for us to be here, especially not for you."

"I am her sister, she would never—"

He rose in a hefty manner from the chair, not able to fully control his emotions. "Were you aware of all the people she has killed trying to get to her father's throne?" he asked her. "Are you aware of _all_ the things she has done?"

Rosalie's eyes widened. "I told you, they have plagued my mind for a long time—"

"So you don't know about your younger sibling?"

Rosalie stopped short, her brows furrowing in confusion. "I do not think I understand," the princess said slowly.

Edward sighed, moving his head from one side to the other as if trying to relieve his neck of the pain and tension that had invaded it. Isabella was certain that, if she could see his face, there would be an equal amount of pain in it was visible in his body.

"Your brother," he said stiffly after a while. Edward went back to look at her, green eyes narrowing behind a black mask as his jaw set firmly.

But Rosalie only frowned harder, almost as if insulted. "Edmund died before Victoria and I could ever know him," she whispered. "And Magnus and Rebecca saw it fit to remove any trace of him from the records. I do not understand what you imply when bringing up things so far in the past."

"Not that brother."

A moment of confusion followed. It was a moment where the four of them beheld the reaction in each one of them. Edward stood towering over the three, tall and intimidating as ever. The once sleeping Lion of the North seemed to emerge as he patiently awaited his answer. Isabella's mask slipped as her eyes darted to Edward, soon remembering herself and letting them flicker to the window. How on earth could he just have mentioned himself like that? She thought he did not wish for them to know of his existence?

Theodor's jaw dropped; it was like he knew exactly of what Edward was speaking. Something in the depths of his eyes came to life, something none of them had ever seen in the aging man. A kindle of hope, a spark of courage. The sentence Edward had uttered had made Glovendale sit up straighter in his chair, trying to discern more of the conversation. He ignored the pain from his fading wounds—this was something worth listening to.

Rosalie's eyes widened. "You know about him?" she asked in a slightly louder tone.

"Lord Athar told me a thing or two, but not all." Edward's eyes flickered over to Theodor. "He got some information wrong."

"Leonore's child was male?!" Theodor exclaimed, beside himself. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair, taking in the information being thrown at him.

"I thought he said the deceased queen gave birth to a daughter," Isabella added, trying to form part of the conversation. It would be strange for her not to react as strongly as well.

"Athar and I thought so until I spoke with Jasper just now. Leonore never gave birth to a daughter. It was a son all along," he answered, repeating something they both were very much aware of. He shifted his attention from Isabella to Rosalie once more. "But I guess you were already aware of that," he snapped in a low growl.

"I was, and his fate was a horrible one," the princess said with defeat in her voice. "What Rebecca did to him and his mother—"

"Rebecca? It was your sister who sent assassins after him."

Theodor did not know how much more information he could take. He had already learned enough to process for a year. To now find out that the acting queen of Angloa had sent assassins to kill her own blood sent such intense chills through each of their spines that they had to recover in silence.

"Victoria would never do such a horrible thing!" Rosalie exclaimed, standing up. Her hands trembled by her side, but her face remained offended and enraged.

"And can you say with utter certainty that it was your sister did not kill your brother? Even after everything else she has done?" Rosalie was about to protest again when the horrible thought struck her. "I understand you want to think the best of her. I do as well, but this changes things, Your Highness. If she was willing to get rid of a child for power, you could be in danger as we speak."

Rosalie sank down in her chair as a sudden headache washed over her. "She would never…," the princess trailed off.

"But what other things do you speak of?" asked Isabella as she moved to comfort the distressed royal.

Rosalie's hands trembled as she cast them a sideways glance, her eyes flickering despite herself. The princess cleared her voice, her eyes temporarily catching Edward's. It was her duty to inform them of her sister's sins—not his. Theodor Glovendale had been beaten to within an inch of his life. Isabella Swan had suffered for years after her father was executed because of Victoria.

"My sister has tried the best she could to be a good person and a good ruler. But, along the way, she has done things that cannot be undone. Horrible things, some might say." They all saw the inner struggle present in her eyes.

"She's had countless people killed. She's had Lord Saxton framed for figuring out her secret—maybe going as far as killing his wife and child, but I cannot be sure of that. And even Lord S—" But before she could say Charles Swan, Edward swiftly shook his head. Isabella had enough as it was. Having it revealed to her that Victoria had been involved in her father's framing and execution would leave her restless until the queen was either dead or rotting in a dungeon herself.

"What secret?" asked Isabella.

"The war with England was all a play of Victoria's to unseat Jasper from the throne and claim it herself. She had expected the English to win until they didn't. She sold out several of our positions to them—so that they would have an advantage during the battles. This is where I was involved. I found one of those spies, and when I started digging upon my arrival in the capital, it went deeper and further than I ever expected," Edward answered.

The princess looked at her hands in shame as Theodor and Isabella stared at her with mouths agape. "When I found out about it, I kept quiet until my conscience weighed me down. I eventually let it slip by Athar," Rosalie finally lamented, her lips settled into a thin line, not willing to show any weakness.

"And now, for some reason, Jasper thinks she killed our little brother," the princess continued, her sight becoming blurry as she fought against the droplets threatening to escape her eyes.

"Victoria holds no remorse for what she did. She cannot be redeemed for such actions."

"My word," Theodor whispered. "How did he know?"

"Because Victoria has been telling him these things ever since he was imprisoned, which only reinforces his belief that he will not have a just trial tomorrow," Edward said heatedly. "And he seems to be accepting that. The queen is not holding a trial, she is looking for another scapegoat—or at least that is what Jasper told me," Edward said in a rumbling voice.

Rosalie sat straight in her chair. "I have tried to come to terms with what she has done for a long time. I have ignored her sins, been blinded by my love for my sister that I let her do horror after horror."

"She must be mad for power," Theodor murmured to himself, pondering the options now available to them. "We need to get you to Athar, Your Highness."

"To fight my own sister," the princess said in defeat.

Isabella moved to sit closer to Rosalie, placing a comforting hand on her arm. "Your Highness, I will not judge you for having kept such information for such a long time. She is your family and you love her. But Victoria is hurting other people for her own benefit. Her actions have turned selfish and cruel. She is hurting Angloa. We need a leader, someone to look up to. I cannot see a way to save Jasper, at least not now. But I can see a way to save you. If you were to join Lord Athar, I know more would rally to his side." Isabella caught Edward's gaze and he knew that the words were meant for him as well.

But Rosalie shook her head. "I would be betraying my own sister," the princess whispered. "I want to believe she can return."

"I do not think we can get her back," Isabella reasoned sadly. "She does not seem to want to be saved."

"And nothing can be done to save Jasper?" asked Edward.

"Why do you want to save him when you did not even want to return to Wessport at first?" Theodor asked. It was still evident that he held some semblance of disappointment for the masked man. But it was promptly washed away by the thought that Edward was now taking action.

"Because he is a good man… and my friend," Edward answered in a curt manner. "And I will not abandon him now—as I should not have done before."

"The only thing we can do is to hope that Jasper is wrong and that Victoria will not abandon him tomorrow."

"If she truly had our brother killed it changes everything," Rosalie murmured to herself, her expression filled with misery and heartache. "But how could she go that far?"

"And when will we be able to leave this place?" Isabella asked Edward. Theodor muttered something under his breath, pensive himself as well.

"Tomorrow will be the best time to leave, for all will be occupied with my cousin's trial," Rosalie answered distantly. Her voice trembled as she continued speaking. "I can make the arrangements, but it is the only window of opportunity you have."

"I am not giving up on Jasper," Edward stated. "I will not abandon him again. After the trial, we will find a way to save him too."

"There is little I can do to help with that," Rosalie said meeting his eyes. "The only thing I can do now is to allow you one final audience with him before his trial."

 _May 25th_

It was the day of the much-awaited trial. Instead of having a closed hearing, Victoria had decided that it should be in the main square of the upper circle. All people of the higher crest of society would flock there. Even some had managed to venture from the middle circle to witness the judgment of the king. The feelings were mixed. Some could not see the reason for the trial being public—especially the lower classes. But the higher classes knew what kind of stunt Victoria was trying to pull. She wanted to villainize her cousin publicly and finally get their full support.

While the upper main square was being prepared, Rosalie had sought out her sister early that morning—hoping to change her mind before it was too late.

Edward had avoided the queen at any cost, even the sight of her making him tremble in anger. It was only the thought of Isabella that made him control his emotions.

Victoria stared at her reflection in the mirror while Rosalie was being shown inside of her sister's chambers. The queen dressed in purple clothes—the color reserved only for those of royal blood. She bore a crown on her head and had her dark-red hair gathered away from her face.

"Will you be at our cousin's trial, sister?"

"It is a spectacle, Victoria. I will have no part in it," Rosalie said. "And you can still stop all of this. You do not have to put Jasper through any of it."

Victoria turned around in her seat to meet her sister's gaze. "Jasper needs to pay for what he has done."

"Which is what exactly? What has he done that is so horrible?"

Victoria rose from her chair and walked over to her bed, her back turned to Rosalie. "Well, he agreed with his mother to have you brought from the monastery here to make your life miserable. He ignored mine and Athar's pleas. He sided with his mother in many things—"

"That's it?" Rosalie demanded in disbelief.

"Do not forget that he completely looked past Rebecca Fell killing our brother. I will see him put on trial for what he has put us through."

Rosalie's lips squeezed together to prevent her from lashing out at her sister. "Only for what Rebecca and Magnus put us through. They are dead now, you saw to at least one of them being so."

"You do not have the right to judge me, Rosalie. I thought you wanted to help me."

"I wanted to help you realize that the path you are walking down has no return. You are casting everything aside," Rosalie said. "And I fear losing you to this thing you are becoming," she admitted.

"We shall talk once the trial is over, I promise you, sister."

"Just don't do anything that you will regret."

Victoria walked over to her sister. "You have nothing to fear. Jasper will see a just and fair trial."

"Then why is it public?"

"So that the people may see that I am a just and fair queen." Rosalie's heart sunk in her chest. Her sister had spoken with her in a similar manner before. And it had always ended in someone being hurt.

* * *

The light did not reach his cell. Jasper dragged the dirty cover closer to his frame. He had gotten a quick shave and wash; his clothes had been changed to newer ones. But nothing could wash away the truth revealed in his eyes. Jasper was certain Victoria meant to steal his freedom.

The once king had questioned himself several times, wondering if he had turned crazy—like Victoria said his mother had been. Perhaps he had imagined everything she had told him.

The rattling of keys startled him as the heavy door was pushed open. In stepped the looming black shadow that he had gotten so used to. Edward Cullen towered in the vast cell, his green eyes searching the darkness until finding him in the corner of his bed, avoiding the rats that scoured the floors.

"Welcome to my final day as a respectable man in this blasted kingdom," Jasper murmured with little tact. "I am glad I shall at least see one friendly face," he began and then stared at the wall. "Well, you know what I mean."

"I am taking Rosalie to Athar, Jasper," Edward said once he was sure that the guard was not spying on them. The sentence brought a relieved smile to Jasper's lips.

"Good, such news will help me face this somber day."

"And I will find a way to get you away from here after your trial," Edward continued.

Jasper's golden eyes stared at him for a long time. Flickers of emotions crossed them, as if there was so much he wanted to have said, but did not find the strength to reveal.

"There are many things I regret, Edward," the tired king finally said. "Many things I could have done better. But one thing I regret the most is not having done better for this kingdom."

"You did as well as any could have done."

Jasper shook his head. "I was too comfortable. I never wanted to put any effort into what I was doing. Perhaps things would be different if I had. Perhaps not. I accept whatever my fate may be, Cullen. I only wish I could have gotten to know you better as a friend."

Edward looked away. "Those are the words of someone who has given up."

"I would once die for this country not to fall into a civil war. Strange how different perspectives change everything. I hope you will see things my way someday," Jasper whispered—the words fleeting away in a hollow echo.

They remained in a comfortable silence for a while. Jasper glanced over at Edward who had no wish to disturb the quiet peace that had settled within the cell.

It was Jasper who broke that piece.

"Could I ask a favor of you, Cullen?" Jasper finally said, his eyes glued to the black mask.

Edward rose an eyebrow and hesitantly bowed his head. "If it is within my power, I shall grant it."

"Oh, it is very much within your power," the once king chuckled in a lighthearted manner. "You see, I have always been very curious about that mask. I am certain I am not the only one."

"Your Majest—"

"Just let me finish, Cullen. I never once asked you to remove it, even if I could have ordered you to many times. And I did so out of respect."

"But you are asking me now," Edward stated.

"Am I allowed to ask?"

A deep sigh sounded. "The face behind this mask will only bring you more sorrow and trouble."

"However disfigured it is, I will not think less of you, Cullen," Jasper reasoned.

The masked man stared at him with a squared jaw, thinking over what Jasper had just asked him to do. But he could not decline such a heart-pleading request. He also wanted a reason to reveal himself to his cousin.

And here it was.

He knew the answer to the question already. He had always known.

Edward reached for the cords of the black leather mask, untying them against his better judgment. Something told him that Jasper had a right to know.

As the laces came undone, the fear subsided. Edward chose to unmask before Jasper because he hoped it would bring them closer together. He deeply hoped his cousin would not turn on him. The masked man was of the firm belief that Jasper Fell, despite what many said, was a good man.

The leather released from his skin and allowed the coldness of the dungeon to creep up against his face. He stared at the silent man before him who did not dare move as he dragged the hood away. Edward sat with his back to the dungeon door, in case a guard neared.

Jasper's eyes widened the moment the faint light caught Edward's face.

The dull flicker of the candles cast shadows across his handsome features and the once king furrowed his eyebrows in fear and confusion. But as the pieces of the puzzle slowly started falling into place, the fear washed away, the confusion was exchanged for amazement and something akin to guilt and sadness.

"Victoria never managed to kill me," Edward whispered after a tense moment. Jasper's eyes dropped to the scar on his neck, a sharp intake of breath revealing that he now had confirmed who Edward truly was. His eyes met Edward's once more, as wide as they could be.

A fleeting moment passed between the two. They were of the same blood, the same lineage. Their fathers had been brothers and an unspoken bond formed, unbeknownst to them. Jasper realized what he had lost; never knowing who Edward really was. The mere realization as to why he had to wear a mask dawned on him and the tragedy of Edward's existence came crashing down with the force of a tidal wave.

"You look just like him," Jasper whispered shakily. "Just like him."

He had been feeling sorry for himself when the man before him had no doubt been through more than he could ever have imagined. The reunion turned bittersweet, the silence stretching within the dungeon as he contemplated the uncanny resemblance. But Edward Cullen did not just look like his father, Jasper then realized. He embodied what had been so good about Philip Fell. The deceased monarch's spirit lived on through both Edward and Rosalie—the legacy was not yet extinguished.

Jasper stared off to the side, his eyes not daring to look upon Edward's uncovered face one more time.

"Take your sister to safety—and yourself as well. Athar will be pleased when you join him."

"I am not joining him," came the terse reply.

Jasper stared at the dirty ground. "I do not doubt you lack the proper motivation for doing so."

"You know why I cannot."

He stroked his chin and settled back against the wall. Jasper Fell's voice was heavy, subdued when he spoke. For the first time, Edward heard a note of fatigue he had never heard before. But it was not a fatigue from lack of sleep—it was the kind of fatigue brought on by the hardships of life. "How many kingdoms have fallen because of greed, lust, and power? But how many have also fallen because people did nothing?"

"If I joined Athar, the fall of Angloa would be imminent. Victoria would put her full force behind her strike."

"A man who does not wish for power is the best one to hold it. I never got to know your father for I was much too young when he died. But I got to know him well through the lords of court that would still remember him." The fleeting whisper pushed against the walls of reality, trying to bring back the past. In the obscure dungeon cell, two royals sat, wallowing in a nostalgic past that might not have been as they all perceived it.

"I have given enough for Angloa," Edward answered back.

"I know, Edward, I know. But you are a Fell, and truly your father's son. Your duty is to Angloa. Duty brought you here and love made you stay. But now fate comes knocking at your door once more. Will you answer it or will you let it pass? Support my cousin, at least. She will need all the help she can get once Victoria directs her full force against her."

He had no answer to that. What could he say to such ominous words?

Edward knew their conversation was coming to an end. He put on the mask—and once more Jasper dared cross eyes with him. When the mask came on, the general was back, the ghost of Philip Fell was hidden again.

"I will not leave you to your fate," Edward growled as the guard closed in on them, ready to let the masked man out of there.

"I have accepted my fate, Cullen. It is due time that you accepted yours," Jasper said as the door once more closed him in.

* * *

 _December 1st, 1516 – Gaera, Northen Angloa_

"Don't take it personally, lad, they do not know any better," the man said as he handed his friend yet another cloth to dry himself with. All he received was a stiff growl as the masked man did his best to dry himself off after having been doused with old fish-broth.

"I stink of rotten fish," he muttered.

"Well, ye did not smell much better before either now did ye?" came the cheerful tone from the dark-haired man.

Edward threw the cloth at him with a snicker. "Yeah, yeah. We all cannot smell like flowers and sunshine."

"War is not an excuse, lad, did yer mum not teach ye proper etiquette?" he chuckled. Edward's gaze hardened as the shorter man lowered his own eyes to the ground. "Sorry, I forgot," the other started.

"Never mind, Cullen," Edward said with a sigh.

Jonathan Cullen sat down with a sigh next to Edward. They were common foot soldiers, just having joined the ranks only a couple of months ago. While everyone else in their platoon had kept away from Edward—afraid of the tall, brute of a man, suspecting he might be a leper—Jonathan had helped him without a second thought. The cheerful man had befriended him easily and soon been just as isolated from the rest as Edward. But he was an exceptionally good friend. The other soldiers made fun of his accent while they made fun with Edward's appearance. The leather mask did not show the fuming anger in his eyes, but the stance was enough to make them stop short.

Jonathan fished out a piece of hardened bread from his bag. "Here," he said, splitting it in half. "We best get some rest, lad. We battle tomorrow. I heard General Melkeer is joining in on the sidelines."

"I heard we are to continue the battle at Haven's beach if all goes well," Edward said.

"General Fawkes is holding the line there!" Jonathan had always wished to fight in Fawkes' division.

"Perhaps we will one day if Field Marshal Collins does not kill us first. He has made every wrong move during the last few battles."

"Ye should share yer ideas with him, Edward. Every prediction ye've made have been true so far. Ye should be with them fine lords and tell _them_ how to fight a war," Jonathan said as he chewed the last of the bread.

"They would never listen to a commoner, they are too prideful."

"That's the problem with nobility, they value themselves too high," his friend whispered. Edward held his tongue, for he had to agree with Jonathan in that statement.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, so I just decided to post this chapter after just having returned from a 15-hour shift at work (I work at a restaurant on weekends). I am completely exhausted and might have missed some grammar errors but I really wanted to post this chapter so I can post the final chapter soon next week. (Because after Christmas I go on vacation for two weeks and won't be able to post then, so I figured you guys might appreciate me posting earlier instead).**

 **I hope you liked this chapter! If you did, please leave a review. A huge thanks to all those who reviewed the last chapter!**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


	26. Chapter 26

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

 _Chapter 26_

 _January 2nd, 1517 – Haven's Beach_

A wasteland would not be the proper term to explain the desolation present before them. Hundreds if not thousands of Angloans lay dead, their blood slipping into the sand as gentle waves came crashing in under a metallic sky. But they still held the line, for the English were relentless.

Edward stared at the developing fiasco. There was no way they would win this battle and their forces should have retreated days ago. He stared in defeat as yet another group of young men—boys not out of their teen years—were forced to attack the flanks of the English. The massacre was brutal as arrows rained down like rain on them and shots were fired. Somewhere a canon sounded through the white smoke and fog.

"We take the left flank of the second group over there!" the Marshal shouted atop his lungs. "Collins' orders," he screamed.

"Sir, if we run for them head-on we will all die!" Edward growled as he neared the thin man. Jeremiah Trett squinted his eyes at the masked man, not letting himself be intimidated by a mere soldier.

"Soldier, you are to follow orders, not disobey them."

"Field Marshal Collins will lead us into a massacre and we will all fall like those Angloans now dead on the beach!" the masked man continued. His companions did not protest, for they did not wish to run out into the open fire and arrows that rained down.

"If we leave Haven's Beach, the English will have a grip on the island," Trett reasoned.

"We could circle back and cut them off by Castell if anyone would listen to reason!"

Trett knew the masked man was not entirely off, but he was a mere Captain, following orders from his superior officers. He also had little say in the matter.

"If you do not go out there and face the English, I will be forced to have you imprisoned for disobeying a direct order," Trett argued, dismayed by the fact that a simple soldier of the ranks spoke more sense than the men who were supposed to know these things.

"Edward, leave it," Jonathan said as he stepped in between them. "Go tell your concerns after the battle. I am certain they will listen to you when this battle is lost."

"And how many Angloans will have died by then?" Edward could not believe anyone would so gladly cast away so many lives.

Screams sounded behind them and the soldiers turned around, witnessing firsthand how a group of youngsters was being slaughtered in the open field.

Jeremiah Trett stared at them in disbelief. "If you make it out of this battle, soldier, I shall take you to Collins myself," he promised.

Jonathan Cullen thanked his superior officer and dragged Edward to the side. "When we get out unscathed from this fight, Edward, we shall be known as heroic survivors!" he chuckled despite the horror that surrounded them. It was Jonathan's way of blocking the screams of death and pain. It was his way of blocking out the wounded men shouting for their mothers as their innards spilled out from open wounds. He did not wish to see the horror of battle—not like Edward did. "Perhaps our names will even be remembered if we fall," he joked, more disheartened as his eyes could not avoid the red color spilling all around them. The drums of war invaded their ears and soon mixed with the song of death.

"I am a soldier with no name, Jonathan. No one will remember me if I fall," Edward said, preparing his sword for the upcoming fight. They would rush in without anyone covering them, without cavalry—against a vast flank of trained and armed soldiers.

Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder. "Then I shall make sure that your name is forever remembered if you fall here today, my friend," he chuckled.

The captain of their platoon urged them to be ready. Loud booms of drums echoed in the winter air as the winds dragged the frozen specks of sand into their eyes.

The metallic essence of blood could be tasted as they waited for a sign to strike. Edward's heart sped up as his adrenaline rushed through him. He had grown used to this sensation ever since joining the ranks a few months ago.

With little ceremony they got their sign and rushed against the left flank of the English, coming like the waves crashing on the beach from vast wooden ships.

* * *

 _May 25th, 1520 – Wessport_

In the open square, they gathered. All social stances of Wessport were represented in that crowded space. The houses enclosing the square had their windows open, people spilling out, trying to get a glimpse of what was to happen.

A giant wooden platform occupied the far end of the space, where the queen would sit. It was soon that she arrived with all the pomp and grace befitting a woman of her stature. Her ladies-in-waiting all dressed in black, together with the queen who had adorned herself in royal blues and silver.

The whisper of the summer breeze floated through the throng and all crooked their necks as Matthew Alistair stepped up with a reluctant Isabella Swan in tow. Rosalie Fell bore her head low to the ground, her hands clutching the torn rosary that she'd kept ever since her father had passed.

Edward Cullen arrived, placed with the lower nobility until the queen herself called that he should come stand by her side on the platform. He had kept away from the queen ever since learning what she'd tried to do against him when he was a child. Edward would never look at her the same and he could not ignore the small spark of hatred that had taken root within him.

Many stomachs were aflutter with nervous butterflies. The people wondered what would happen in the course of the following minutes. Whatever it was, many of them understood that it might change the outcome for Angloa in the future.

Theodor Glovendale stood, reluctant as ever, next to Lord and Lady Savoie. He looked less beaten up, but the sour scowl would not leave his face as he cast side glances at the queen. Glovendale was not the only one to hide his distaste for her. Many in the crowd watched in silent anger as the graceful woman glowed in her seat. It was a seat, many believed, not dignified for someone like her.

Edward's gaze swept over the public. There had to be at least hundreds in the crowd, waiting for the carriage that would bring the once king of their country.

He had made up his mind. As Isabella supported her frail mother against her small frame, he could not stand how Alistair would loom over her, satisfied, searching her frame with his eyes. Edward's pride and common sense would not allow him to leave her one more minute in the capital. Returning to Wessport had been a mistake that might cost them dearly. He consoled himself with the thought that they might at least get Rosalie and Glovendale safely out of there.

They had planned meticulously for the next few moments. Every possible outcome had been thought of. Rosalie met his eyes. It was only an instant, but a mutual understanding passed through them as she gave a faint nod in his direction.

"Why is it taking so long?" asked a disgruntled Launël as he straightened the collar of his doublet. "Let us get on with it and see Magnus' pesky offspring shut away once and for all." Victoria overheard him and her lips curled into a slight smirk.

"If the lords are growing anxious, the people must be so even more," Rosalie whispered in her sister's ear.

"Good, I want there to be tension," Victoria muttered.

Rosalie settled back in her chair with a frown. "You said this would be a quick trial, Victoria."

The queen shifted her gaze from the people to her sister. "Indeed, it will. Trust me, you shall see," the older woman answered enigmatically.

More minutes passed where the people of Wessport waited for Jasper to be brought to them. The low whispers soon grew to loud murmurs as the clock ticked on. When the sun started sinking in the sky, someone exclaimed and pointed to the far end of the vast square. The summer breeze died down as the day cooled. A fresh waft of hay and grass passed through the now silent square as the squeaky wheels of a cart were the only discernable sound.

He sat on a flimsy wooden cart, atop a bed of fresh hay and grass with his hands tied behind his back. Jasper held his head high as the sea of people opened up for him and his cart, dragged by two small and starving-looking horses. But his pride would not wash away. Jasper held his head high, like a true Fell and did not cross eyes once with the public.

His white linen shirt was already wrinkled, and his once combed hair shot all ways. The trimmed goatee made his face look more sunken in as it added to the deep shadows in his cheeks, temples and under his eyes. Jasper looked as if he had not slept nor eaten in weeks.

The silence only continued to press as he was taken down from the carriage and led to the platform to kneel before the queen. Victoria eyed him for a long time atop her chair, her face ridden with a saddened expression.

"I wish this would not be necessary, dear cousin," her voice echoed, as sudden as a thunder.

Jasper met her intense eyes, he saw past the mask of the willful queen and meant for them all to see it. "You made it so when you had Lord Braun attack me, and then attacked me yourself."

A carefree chuckle sounded. "Placing the blame on others—how alike your father you are."

The people started whispering amongst themselves at Victoria's comment. Edward saw some nodding their heads in agreement. The trial had not even started, and the queen already had some of the citizens on her side.

"Let this trial begin. And let it be swift," Victoria said, clapping her hands for the prosecutor to come up to the platform. An old clerk in black clothes made his painful way up the stand, carrying a huge stack of letters and documents under his arm.

What followed was a full hour of him reading through most of those papers, each of them taking care in incriminating Jasper Fell for actions he had not committed.

But, instead of loudly protesting against the charges, Jasper knelt in utter silence, letting the old man accuse him of one crime after the other. Charges of murder, theft, and corruption floated carelessly through the silent square.

Edward squared his jaw at most of the accusations, knowing a large part of the statements to be false. When his eyes drifted to the platform, he suddenly noticed that both Lord Glovendale and Lady Renée were nowhere to be seen. Edward crossed eyes with Rosalie and she gave him a small nod. Victoria was so taken with Jasper kneeling before her that she had not noticed as a maid of Rosalie's had whisked them away.

He was snapped back to reality when Victoria's voice broke through the monotonous voice of the clerk. "These charges are indeed grave," the queen began. "And my cousin has done little to defend himself against them."

The crowd now protested, for without much context, it was easy to believe Jasper had indeed been behind many of those atrocious crimes. But the queen put up her hands to silence the masses. "My good people of Wessport," she said. "Jasper Fell no longer sits on the throne. The main Fell line once more dominates the crown—as it always should have. You will be safe under me now, safe from any threats like Lord Athar and his traitors. But I am inclined to forgive my cousin." Another wave of protest sounded and amidst the tumult, Isabella slipped back and jumped off the stage, running behind the maid who showed her to a secret passageway hugging the corner of the square. But the young woman was not yet ready to leave the square until she was certain Edward was coming with her.

She would not part from him again.

She watched as the maid went back for Edward and the princess, begging for them to be quick. Rosalie would have it the hardest to leave there, for she was right next to Victoria.

The piercing eyes of the queen now sought out Jasper. "Jasper Fell, your charges are many and quite substantial. How do you plead?"

The quick interaction passing between Victoria and her cousin did not go unnoticed by Edward. He wondered if the queen had not visited Jasper right before the trial. Perhaps she had offered him some sort of deal if he pled guilty.

"I am innocent of all these charges," sounded Jasper's voice, as loud and clear as day. He would not back away—not when he knew that the queen was trying to use him as her final scapegoat.

"You disappoint me and the people of this glorious kingdom," Victoria sighed. "Jasper Fell, by admitting to your guilt, you may still escape the law—I may still help you. But if you persist in lying, I cannot do much."

The crowd was now starting to protest faintly, some had even gone as far as throwing a few mild insults Jasper's way. He was hit by vile words, but he would not bend.

"It is true my father and mother did terrible things. But I have neither murdered nor stolen from the kingdom. I will not be your scapegoat now, Victoria. I will not bend the knee and accept you as the queen of this country!" the royal spat, gritting his teeth as Victoria frowned down at him.

"Have it your way," she snickered. She bent down so that only he might hear her. "How differently this could have ended, _dear_ cousin," she spat. Victoria waved her hand and from the corner of the platform came a hooded man carrying an ax.

"Sister, what are you doing?!" Rosalie exclaimed, shooting out of her chair. "Back down before it is too late!" she hissed in her sister's ear, her eyes flickering to the raging crowd.

"Listen to her, Your Majesty and end this madness," Edward growled, joining them.

"Step aside, Cullen," Victoria hissed back. But Edward would not have any of it. He started pushing his way to Jasper in a desperate attempt to save the once king of Angloa—to save his cousin. But, as he reached him, Jasper shook his head in defeat.

"Leave it, Edward," his tired voice said. He directed a small smile his way. "Go," he whispered. The eyes behind the mask widened—Jasper had known all along what Victoria had meant for him. He knew his fate would most likely end that summer day. Before Edward could answer back, four guards managed to drag him away from the kneeling king to where Victoria stood. But Edward unleashed his rage and put up a good fight, it was only when two more guards joined in and some lords that he was subdued. Edward took a few good punches, but not before completely taking out the initial four guards.

"You disappoint me, Cullen," she said in a stiff tone as he was forced down, his breath ragged after the intense fight. The people watched with wide eyes as the masked man was made to kneel before the queen. "But I want you to remain here and see this. Guards, take him to where my sister is and make sure they have a good view," she smirked.

"She cannot mean this," Rosalie said in disbelief, the shock still not wearing off. She was expecting Victoria to back down on her word at any given moment. But when the executioner neared Jasper and Edward and Rosalie were taken to the end of the platform, they understood that Victoria was serious.

They watched the hooded man near with slow steps to Jasper as he stared at the wooden boards below him. While all of the attention now rested on Jasper, Edward managed to free his hidden dagger and in a swift series of motions, he had managed to disarm two guards, killing one of them. He was about to be overpowered by the other two when Rosalie directed a blow to them, momentarily confusing them. It was enough for Edward to silently make them fall to the ground unconscious. His eyes swept over the square.

Rosalie crossed eyes with the masked man as they stood helplessly behind the raised platform, away from the eyes of the people. A maid had placed hooded cloaks that they were to disguise themselves with. This was their only chance at fleeing—but it would mean leaving Jasper behind. Victoria could still be bluffing, but as they saw the executioner readying his ax, their stomachs dropped.

There was a hard choice to be made, and none dared utter the words. Finally, it was Edward who prepared to dart for the platform, ready to fight whatever got in his way to save his cousin.

But Rosalie stepped in his way, her face oddly neutral. "You will run up there and fight a gallant battle—and you will fail, Edward," she lamented.

"If we do nothing, he dies," Edward hissed. "Jasper will die, Rosalie!" He put all notion of formality aside when uttering her name.

Rosalie fought hard against the weakness in her voice as she took his upper arm in her hand. "Then I will make the decision, Cullen." Edward knew deep down in his heart there was nothing they could do in a city full of guards loyal to the queen. His moment of valor would be foolish. The strategist within him—someone who had been pushed aside all these months as he'd let his emotions rule—now screamed at him to leave. "That woman is no longer my sister, she died long ago," Rosalie mourned as she saw Victoria smirk at Jasper. "If we stay here, we will meet the same fate as Jasper and Athar will lose the battle. We cannot let that happen, Edward. I order you to come with me, to take me to Athar," she said with a slight tremble in her voice. Rosalie had offered him an easy way out—she had made the ultimate decision. It would be her conscience that would weigh heavy, not Edward's.

He would forever be haunted by that moment of putting away the dagger and slowly picking up the cloaks, blending into the masses. He did it in a haze while his heart beat madly in his chest. He had been so intent on saving Jasper, but now, in his hour of need, he was to leave yet another family member behind.

They slipped through the crowd as it gawked at the spectacle in disbelief. "I failed my cousin," Rosalie lamented to herself as Edward pushed past the people.

"We both failed him." Edward hoped Victoria was still playing. He hoped the axe would not fall down.

"Is it not customary to offer him some last few words?" shouted someone in the crowd. Victoria's eyes narrowed, trying to find the culprit. But when she did not see him, she complied.

"Make it quick," she growled to her cousin, low enough for the people not to hear.

Jasper was pushed forward with hands still tied behind his back, the surreal situation still not processed within his mind. His eyes searched the sea of people, searching for one face—one mask within it.

When he saw the hood and the dark mask hiding within it, he knew Edward was still there—and he would be there until his end, standing by his side.

It was the least his cousin could do.

Jasper had never thought expressing himself would be so hard. Having just a few moments to reveal everything that defined him was not enough. He wished for the people to know that he himself knew he had not done enough for them. He wished for them to know that he was and never had been his father. Every day of waking up, he had fought against the bad name Magnus had tainted him with. Jasper had strived to be more like his uncle and less like his own parents. To have lived with the shame brought on by his own blood was curse enough.

But he was strangely calm. Perhaps because he knew that in that very sea of people, there was someone that would carry on what his ancestors had stood for. Jasper cared little if it was Edward or Rosalie as long as someone did it.

Jasper turned to face Victoria, eyes narrowing as hers did too. "Know that you will ever be known as the ultimate traitor to this country. Good men will see to that. Know that the ghosts of your ancestors will come for you—your past will haunt you, Victoria." The prophetic words died out into the summer afternoon, carrying a chill with them. " _He_ will come for you."

Victoria nodded, not letting her dismayed state show in her face. But her heartbeat had risen slightly at those eerie words. Yet, she ignored the senses they provoked in her.

"It gives me great grief to do this, cousin," the queen said. Her eyes trailed over the crowd, wallowing in the fear present in their eyes. Victoria savored her power, savored the hold she now had over them. With this action, she would be the true ruler of Angloa and no one would be able to go up against her.

With this minor action, the daughter of Philip Fell would die, giving birth to something else—something ruthless and void of empathy.

"Off with his head," sounded the terminal words.

The executioner had someone place his block in front of Jasper as he was roughly made to kneel in front of it—meeting his fate with full force.

"I remember what he said to me," he said out to the crowd, knowing Edward would understand those words were meant for him. A melancholic calm settled within him as the murmur died down. Jasper had still been a king and the powerful rumble in his voice still commanded respect.

"We must go," Rosalie whispered in Edward's ear. Many in the crowd had lowered their gaze, unable to believe that they were about to witness the execution of a king.

"Wait," Edward said, wanting to hear what Jasper had to say. His whole body trembled as Rosalie reluctantly turned to face her cousin as well. She had decided they should leave, she would not turn away from him. The princess started shaking despite herself in expectancy of the loud chop of the ax to sound.

Jasper's eyes met one final time with Edward's, a string of sadness coursed through the distant cousins, knowing they would never truly get to know one another. "A king is not born, he is made," Jasper said with full force as the executioner forced his head down on the block.

The hearts in the crowd stopped as the ax rose in the sky, catching the powerful beams of a warming sun. A ghostly stillness settled as time slowed down—everything slowed down.

Edward's mouth opened in a silent protest as the steel came down with full force against the exposed neck of the monarch.

His head was severed from his body in an instance, falling from the platform as his blood painted the square red. Rosalie was strangely silent by Edward's side. They turned around at one time—he could not remember when. A hollowness soon followed, the small black hole of pain in his heart growing a size bigger after what he had witnessed.

Moving through the throng as people stared in disbelief proved to be difficult. Their legs moved with the speed of a snail, feeling as if they were wading through water.

He did not remember reaching the corner, he only remembered the cold sweat emerging from his skin, how nausea claimed him and how everything felt undone. Edward remembered feeling utterly defeated as if he had been fighting for hours and just lost against life. How could he go forth with such a scene playing out before him?

A calming voice reached his ears, breaking through the fog, anchoring him once more to reality. She was there, waiting to be by his side. He could feel the warmth of her presence. Edward snapped out of it—he had seen many of his comrades fall before. Was it so different just because it was his sister who had spilled the blood?

Maybe.

But one voice brought a spark to the dying flame.

Isabella's horrified face met his own as she stood, hugging the corner, holding the passage open for them. They did not speak, they did not have to. She took his gloved hand in hers and placed the other one briefly on his cheek. Her touch was enough to settle some of the raging tempests within him. He urged her to race through the tight passageway. Rosalie turned around before following the young woman, she took a long and good look at her sister. Her eyes narrowed, and her face settled into a frown. Edward stood next to her, following her gaze.

Victoria stood by the pool of her own cousin's blood, not being able to help the satisfied smirk spreading across her features. Her eyes searched the square, relishing in having the people by her side. Suddenly, she saw her own sister push her hood down, eyes saddened and downtrodden, shaking her head.

Rosalie had abandoned all hope for her and something within Victoria was extinguished—as if the final flame of good had finally gone out.

Rosalie could bear it no more and disappeared around the corner behind Edward. He remained, having caught the queen's glare. The shock of Jasper's execution was replaced with something else. Disappointment and another powerful feeling took root.

Edward lifted his nose in the air, an arrogant gesture. He had broken his oath to her—broken his word. But, strangely, his honor did not feel tainted. Despite having seen his cousin murdered on that square, leaving Victoria gave him a strange bittersweet feeling of relief and anguish. He had no qualms about abandoning her. Edward had never known Magnus or Rebecca Fell. But he started imagining what kind of monsters such people had been if Victoria was the fruit of their horror.

Before the queen could call attention to the masked man in black at the edge of the square, he had disappeared as the sunbeams momentarily blinded her. When Victoria's eyes went back to that location he was gone. It was only then that she noticed Lady Renée, her daughter, and Lord Glovendale had disappeared like dust in the wind as well.

Her voice boomed across the square as she shouted: "Guards!"

 _June 6th, 1520 – Sorossa_

Their horses braved on. "Mother, just a bit more, please," Isabella pleaded as a pale Renée did her best to stay lucid. Rosalie helped the older woman off the horse.

Rosalie's eyes softened as she watched the worried daughter coddle her mother. "If we get to Lord Athar's camp soon, there should be a healer there. Your mother should be fine, Miss Swan."

"Thank you, Your Highness," Isabella said as she kissed her mother's head and stole a glance from Rosalie. "For everything." She could breathe now—something she had not done for a long while. They were safely away from the capital.

Rosalie's gaze was still foggy. Isabella could not imagine what must be going through her mind. Her cousin's head had been chopped off in front of her, by her own sister whom she loved, nonetheless. But Rosalie would show nothing as to what went through her mind. She remained eerily similar to Edward—just as stoic and silent in her way.

Edward stood on the cliff, looking out over the valley and at the dark forest rooftop emerging in the distance.

"Are you certain he will even be at Raven's Grove?" asked Theodor as he joined him.

"He will be there," Edward answered with sure conviction. Theodor did not question him further.

Theodor, once a respected ambassador, was now no more than a traitor on the run. But as he looked back at Rosalie, he knew she was something worth fighting for. He would follow her, just so that her sister might not remain in power. And, standing by his side, stood a man that could make that a reality. Edward Cullen together with General Fawkes and Lord Athar could work together to place the princess on the throne and restore peace to Angloa.

"Indulge an old man," he said as he turned to face the masked enigma. When Edward did not answer, Theodor continued.

"What will you do after leaving the princess and I in the secure hands of Lord Athar?"

The masked man shifted where he stood as if it was something he was not certain of yet himself. Thoughts circled in his mind like the cogs of a watch, they turned slowly, until they sped up. He almost chuckled at the irony of things. He had spent so much time and effort running from a situation like this, and now he found himself here again—with a critical decision to be made.

He turned to look at Isabella, helping her mother mount the horse once more. She wanted to stay and fight. It seemed she had grown even fiercer than he—wanting to defend Angloa so badly in her time of need. "I will stay with Lord Athar," he finally answered, hoping he had made the right decision.

Theodor lit up at those words. "And once this is all over I am leaving these shores forever with Miss Swan," he added. Rosalie and Isabella could not help but hear those words as well.

"You came to help us in our hour of need once, Edward. And now you come once more," Isabella said as she went to stand by his side.

They glanced out over the valley, kissed by the warming beams of the sun. The clouds floated low in the sky, casting great shadows over the grasslands as they swayed gently in the breeze.

The shadows from Raven's Grove crept away from the light and stretched far. The leafy crowns danced in the wind and the music of the rattling leaves reached them where they stood.

Raven's Grove called them and they answered.

Edward Cullen would return. The Lion of the North was back and this time he truly had something to fight for.

* * *

 _January 2nd, 1517 – Haven's Beach_

The calmness after a battle was always unbearable for them. General Fawkes stared out over the field, knowing they should have retreated days ago.

"This was a failure," his second in command muttered behind him. The number of bodies piling up was enough to fill an entire cemetery.

Seagulls flew overhead, their white wings contrasting against the dark skies. By the beach, the English docked from their ships. Haven's Beach had been taken. Fawkes rode away with his entourage, past the woods and toward the field near the town of Gaera.

They were losing this war and if it continued in such a fashion, Angloa would fall embarrassingly fast to the English.

On the way to his tent, he passed a giant of a man in black clothes with a black leather sack upon his head. Or perhaps he just appeared a giant from the way he would loom over one if they neared enough. The man was furiously digging into the frozen earth, a burlap sack next to him. There was no doubt in Fawkes' mind that the sack contained a body. He had grown used to seeing the soldiers burying their friends.

"I did not know we allowed lepers into the army now," Collins sneered as he pushed a lock of dark-blonde hair out of his eyes. The Marshal dressed as impeccably as ever, never allowing himself remotely near the battlefield. It was the reason for him not even recognizing a soldier of his platoon. He had probably not even made use of the finely crafted sword resting on his hip.

"Give him peace and let him bury his friend," General Melkeer, the second in command, sneered. His brow furrowed as he regarded the pompous Marshal. The white streaks touching his auburn hair gave him a charming aura—much like it did with General Fawkes.

But Collins listened little to them and stayed on as they went for their tents. Fawkes had no mind to squabble with the man.

Several hours passed until it was time for them to hold a meeting, not entirely sure of how to proceed.

"Where is that bastard?" Fawkes shouted in anger as he pushed a scroll off the table. His jovial and careless manner had long since been repressed as he had taken on the full responsibility of fighting the war—a heavy weight on his shoulders.

"I haven't seen Collins since we passed that masked soldier," Melkeer said, the tone of his voice echoing that of Fawkes'.

Fawkes bit his jaw together. Melkeer sighed. "I will go get him."

But almost an hour after disappearing and not returning, Fawkes himself set out to find Collins. He was absolutely sure he would discharge the bastard after having so disrespectfully made his superior officers wait.

He asked his way across the camp until he reached the end of it. Melkeer stood next to a tree, overlooking the field—Haven's Beach in the distance, the winds bringing on the smell of blood and death.

What he saw was a most amusing sight. The masked soldier from earlier now stood towering over Collins, growling at him with such a deep and frightening voice that Fawkes did not have a mind to go closer. The soldier in black looked like an apparition. The rags he wore made it seem as if he had run through a forest of thorns. The ill-fitting leather mask on his head was pulled by the wind every so often.

Melkeer had been standing there for the better part of thirty minutes, his expression going from anger that a mere soldier was insulting an officer, to surprise and finally awe.

The things the soldier had been speaking of—fighting from a higher ground and not charging first were things they should have thought of from the start. General Melkeer had not wanted to interrupt the argument as the masked soldier continued giving solid arguments for why they had lost and what Collins could have done with his flanks to avoid it.

"I'll be damned," Melkeer whispered to himself. "Even in the ranks, eh—"

Collins had been taking the insults for the better part of thirty minutes just because he did not wish to fight back against the brutish man.

"I had to bury my friend because you sent us into the slaughter. Your Captain, Jeremiah Trett and all the other soldiers in that platoon are dead because of you. Take a good look at this grave, Collins, take a look at the unmarked grave of this soldier who will never return home!" Edward stared into the eyes of the officer who had not dared open his mouth.

Jonathan had fallen while helping one of their wounded friends. There had been nothing Edward could've done to help him. And now he was gone. His name would die with him, floating off with the winter winds.

"That is enough, soldier," came a harsh voice as a man in expensive clothes and chainmail neared them. The older man with auburn hair and clear eyes stared at them both. "Arguing out in the open against an officer like this," the man chastised. "It could be enough to send you to the stocks."

Collins smirked as General Melkeer came to his rescue. His grin grew even wider as he spotted Fawkes waiting patiently by a large oak tree.

"I tell you, Melkeer, this man is insane. He should be taken to the nearest town and executed at once," Collins drawled.

Edward cast away the shovel and prepared for the storm of insults that would now be hurled his way. He was used by now receiving every type of comment. He knew how he looked, how he was. Edward did not exactly inspire a sense of companionship. The only friend he had known now lay in the cold hard ground as maggots found their way to his body.

But the icy blue eyes grew soft as they met his gaze. "You think we led you into the slaughter, eh?" the man asked as he scratched his silver speckled beard.

"He would dare insult your brilliant strategy and that of General Fawkes," Collins added.

"Well, the man is right. We acted like fools today and many got killed because of it."

Collin's face went from amusement to disbelief in a split second.

"Wait, what?" Collins asked in confusion.

Melkeer neared Edward and put his arms around his shoulders, leading him away from the baffled Marshal. "What were you saying about taking the 'high ground'?" he asked, generally interested.

"You want my opinion?" Edward asked in disbelief. Melkeer faced him straight on and with the most honest tone and expression Edward had ever seen in anyone he answered: "Yes."

Fawkes saw them nearing and heard the masked soldier talking in a low voice. Every word escaping the soldier made Melkeer's smile grow wider and wider.

"General Fawkes," the second in command of the Angloan armies said as he neared the disbelieving General. "Permission to bring this soldier to the meeting."

Fawkes stared at the towering man in disbelief. "This man?" he questioned.

"Would you rather Collins come?" Melkeer asked with utmost sincerity.

Fawkes looked at the man dressed in black. He had his doubts about a man hiding his face. Bringing in a soldier from the ranks to such a pristine meeting would indeed raise a few eyebrows. But if Melkeer wanted him there, it was for a reason.

"One meeting, Melkeer," Fawkes said harshly.

The soldier kept his mouth shut as Melkeer rejoiced in the sudden turn of events.

Fawkes staggered back to his tent, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Times were indeed desperate if they would even listen to a common soldier for help.

"You never told me your name," Melkeer said offhand as they walked together to the tent.

The soldier's head snapped to him and Melkeer could not stop a chill as he felt the eyes watch him carefully.

"Edward," the man finally said. For Melkeer it was not enough. "Only Edward?" the second in command asked.

Edward stopped for a moment and glanced back at the freshly dug grave, his friend's words echoing in his mind still. Jonathan would always be remembered by him. The man had no family left to mourn him, only a friend whose face he had never seen.

It occurred to the masked man that there was one thing left he could do for Jonathan. He shifted his gaze back to Melkeer and fought against a smile spreading across his lips. "Edward…Cullen." He liked how the name sounded on his lips. Apparently, so did Melkeer.

"That is a good name, soldier," he winked.

Edward nodded. He walked back with Melkeer, heading for the tent. "It is," he murmured to himself. The winds of winter pushed harder against them as Edward turned from that grave, leaving it behind him and headed forward to whatever might await him.

* * *

 **A/N: So, as promised, I gave you the FINAL chapter before Christmas eve! I can't believe this fic is done! Holy hell, that went faster than thought. Now for a nice and relaxing vacation where I can put aside all thoughts of plot and character development lol. I hope you enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. There are certain tidbits I'd like to oversee. But, for now, I am just going to leave it.**

 **Also, I keep stressing this, again and again, I know some readers get pissed, sending me angry PM's that I can't "finish the story here". Again: READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES. Dear God, you'd be surprised how many ignore these notes and then think I just ended this and the first fic so abruptly. No people, there WILL, of course, be a third and final fic. It is in the process of being written and I do not yet have a date for the first chapter. We are most likely looking at the end of March/ early April. I will update my Tumblr and FF profile if anything changes/ if there are delays.**

 **Again, I really hope you liked this, please let me know if you did. I can only leave now with wishing you a Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays if you do not celebrate Christmas. Oh, and a Happy New Year! Let's make 2018 better than the last, shall we? ^^'**

 **Cheers,**

 **Isabelle**


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